Take These Broken Wings
by Ushmushmeifa
Summary: A slave and his captive crash on a primitive planet, far from help. He will regain the power to choose freedom, and learn the price he must pay for it. [Lord of the Rings – Escape Velocity: Nova crossover]
1. Chapter 1

**Summary:** A slave and his captive crash on a primitive planet, far from help. He will regain the power to choose freedom, and learn the price he must pay for it. Crossover: Lord of the Rings & Escape Velocity: Nova. First fic, so constructive criticism is welcome.  
  
**Disclaimer:** Lord of the Rings and anything you recognise from Lord of the Rings belongs to Tolkien. Escape Velocity: Nova and anything recognisble from the game is the property of Ambrosia Software and ATMOS.   
  
Commander Krane, the Bureau of Internal Investigation and Llyrell belong to Ambrosia Software. Ryllaen is mine.  
  


* * *

  
  
**_Earth, Sol system_ **  
  
The trembling waves were bathed in an orange glow. Screaming sirens split the air, distant and forlorn. The long graceful arc of the Kane Band, high above the atmosphere and shining with the lights of a hundred ships, was partially obscured by the great roiling clouds of smoke and shimmering heat waves that rose from the warehouses packed upon the shore.  
  
Ryllaen turned away from the sight, thick long mane of hair haloed by the light behind, heart heavy. The screaming had stopped, but not the fear, not the despair. The emotions of the captives rolled over Ryllaen like a wave on the shore below, intermingled with the adrenaline high and triumph of the Bureau agents. The captives were innocent of any real wrong-doing; Ryllaen knew it. They were not traitors and they did not rebel against the Federation; but the iron chains of rule that the Bureau held chafed them as they chafed Ryllaen. They had protested, as Ryllaen could not. And the Bureau had acted with its usual brutal ruthlessness, squashing any sign of discontent.  
  
"Vell-os."  
  
The voice held a tone of command; Ryllaen turned unthinkingly. In the shadows of the door stood a woman, all long-legged beauty and flowing blonde hair. Many were the men attracted by those wide pretty eyes and pert lips. If they were lucky they never discovered what the gorgeous surface concealed.  
  
"Commander Krane."  
  
Krane, head of the Bureau of Internal Investigation, smiled. "You did well. Come, let's join the prisoners and you will tell me which ones are the leaders of this little revolt."  
  
Obeying because he had no choice, Ryllaen followed her down to the waiting vehicle. The ride to the detention centre was quick and silent. Krane did not speak to him and Ryllaen had no desire to be in her presence, much less converse with her. Not for the first time, Ryllaen wished he could kill her. But he knew he would do all he could to protect this woman, even at the loss of his own life. He could do nothing else, and the knowledge rankled deeply within him. Barely an hour later, they paced along a long line of prisoners - bedraggled planet-bound workers, sullen and frightened.  
  
"Well?" From her tone, it might seem as though Krane asked him to choose a cake at the dessert bar of a restaurant.  
  
Ryllaen let loose a noiseless sigh and bent his mind to observing the prisoners. They were all scared - it took no telepathy to tell that - and many avoided his gaze as if the lack of eye contact could somehow shield their minds from him. It didn't, of course. Some stared at him defiantly, brash and bluffing away their fear. One in particular seemed to plead with him, begging him to understand. Ryllaen paused in front of this one. The weaves around her were strong for a normal, almost broaching the level of control that defined telepathy. Delving into her mind briefly, Ryllaen's doubt was washed away. This was the leader, and yet... she was hiding something. Someone. A moment's careful probing told him who her co-leader was. There was nothing he could do, only one way to answer her plea for justice. He had his orders.  
  
"These two." Ryllaen pointed them out.  
  
The captive woman's eyes closed in resignation, her weaves radiating a sense of betrayal. She gasped and jerked back, falling to the ground. Between blank eyes a thin wisp of smoke rose from the cauterized wound. The man had only enough time to stare at her body in shocked horror before he too sprawled awkwardly amongst the white-faced and shivering prisoners.  
  
_no_ Ryllaen let loose a mental scream of anguish, unheard by any save his own people. Within it was contained all the despair and helpless fury of one for whom freedom was a distant dream, an almost-forgotten memory.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
**_Spacedock V, Nesre Secundus system, ten years earlier_**   
  
  
"Fourteen thousand credits for the lot, and that's my final offer." Ford Shirens sat back and waited for the cargo master's response. It was an outrageous price for fifteen tons of basic industrial parts, but a fuel explosion in the main shipyard and recent Auroran attacks on nearby trade lanes had left the station in desperate need of his cargo.  
  
"Fine," the cargo master said abruptly. "Fourteen thousand, to be paid on delivery." He looked as if he had a bad taste in his mouth.  
  
Ford smiled, careful to keep any hint of triumph out of his expression, and filled out the requisite forms with a happy flourish. He'd always had a knack for bargaining, but this time he'd outdone himself. After unloading the rest of his deliveries, he would finally have enough credits to buy his dream ship: a brand new Sigma Shipyards Starbridge. That cheerful thought was almost enough to make him shout for joy.  
  
As he left the cargo master's office Ford noticed a man staring at him from across the broad area. The man had the distinctive long hair of a Vell-os, and did not look away when Ford glanced at him. Vell-os were a rare sight, but not that rare, and Ford thought nothing of it. They were all telepaths and traditionally judges, able to sense lie and truth. Beyond that, Ford didn't know anything about them.  
  
"Excuse me."  
  
"Yes?" Ford stopped and looked at the Vell-os, who had decided to approach him after all. "Can I help you?"  
  
The Vell-os looked at him hard, as if searching for something. He nodded sadly. "I believe so. I am Llyrell. There is a package I need delivered to New England, but I cannot take it myself. I can offer you twenty thousand credits. It will only take ten tons of cargo space."  
  
Ford felt his eyebrows rising. New England was in the Wolf 359 system; he wasn't going there, but it was only one jump away from Sol. And twenty thousand credits could buy him some decent equipment. He readily agreed.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
**_Earth, Sol system_**  
  
  
Oh, he'd been naive. He had sold his freedom for twenty thousand credits. It hurt. Even after so much time, it hurt. Ryllaen watched Commander Krane casually reholster her blaster through eyes carefully blank of expression. It wasn't true, of course; once Llyrell had seen his potential for telepathy, only death could have saved him from the Bureau and slavery. But still, he should have known better than to venture onto the planet where the Bureau kept its secret headquarters. He should have guessed that what he had thought of as instinct and good luck was more than that, should have guessed what the Bureau did to telepaths. He couldn't have known; he understood that. It didn't help.  
  
Krane turned to him after organising the disposal of the remaining prisoners with her subordinates. Her eyes held a lingering hardness, a taint of cold, calculating ambition. "I've got another mission for you," she said brightly. "Let's get you debriefed."  
  
Obeying without thought, Ryllaen followed her like a faithful dog. He was less than that; a dog at least could bite its master's hand. A dog had a will and mind of its own.  
  
  
-------------------------------------  
  
  
"To the galactic east of Federation space is Polaris territory," Krane said. She leaned casually against the table in a back room of one of the more popular bars in the Kane Band. Behind her stood a man dressed in a Federation Colonel's uniform, though Ryllaen knew him to be Krane's personal assistant and second in command.  
  
Ryllaen merely nodded, waiting patiently.  
  
"We don't know much about the Polaris. That lack of intelligence is disturbing, to say the least. Attempts to study their technology from afar haven't proved successful, and any ships we manage to capture seem to be living beings - they die soon after." Krane leaned forward and smiled. The expression made her look disgustingly gorgeous. "So... I want you to capture a Polaran for study and interrogation."  
  
Startled, Ryllaen stared at her. He hadn't expected that. "Sir?"  
  
"You will wait just outside claimed Polaris territory with a special fleet of two carriers and their escorts. Sometimes solitary Polaris ships will venture out of their defended systems. Find one, disable the ship, and take the crew. Once you have them, bring them immediately to me, no matter what. Leave the fleet if you must. Do you understand?"  
  
Ryllaen nodded helplessly, a sick feeling in his stomach. So. He was now a marauder, no better than the pirates in the Bureau's pay. Not for the first time, he imagined what it would be like to kill Krane, even as he obediently followed the Colonel out of the room.  
  


* * *

  
  
  
**_ New England, Wolf 359 system, ten years earlier   
_**   
  
The docking pad he'd been assigned to was on the outskirts of the spaceport, but Ford Shirens paid it no mind. It just took him that much closer to the address the Vell-os had given him. He stepped out of his work-worn Valkyrie, eyeing its hull, corroded with long exposure to radiation and coated with space grime, with familiar affection. He would leave it behind soon, trade it in for a new ship.  
  
"Trader Shirens?" A fussy port official was at his elbow. "We've been expecting you. Step this way, please."  
  
Ford followed him into a darkened room. Sudden, sharp pain stabbed into his arm. He had only enough time to perceive dark figures converging on him before the sedative took effect and he crumpled to the ground.  
  
Consciousness returned slowly, accompanied by an uncomfortable itch at the nape of his neck. Ford blinked and focused with difficulty on the people standing above him. One was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, two wore the uniform of Federation soldiers, and one was the Vell-os. Ford struggled to remember his name. Llyrell; that was it.  
  
_yes i am llyrell_  
  
Ford blinked. Where had that voice come from? None of the people he could see had opened their mouths.  
  
_i speak to your mind_  
  
He stared at the Vell-os incredulously. He couldn't have - yet Ford knew that no words had been spoken aloud. He didn't know what to think; before he could work out the implications of this, the woman spoke.  
  
"Stand up."  
  
Ford wasn't disposed to following the orders of people who had just abducted him and knocked him out. He was about to tell her so, when he found to his surprise that he was obeying her. Confused, he glanced around, panic beginning to replace fear and anger. "What is happening? What have you done to me?"  
  
"Congratulations," the woman said with a friendly smile. "You are a telepath. Of course, everyone knows that the only telepaths are Vell-os, so you are also Vell-os. As a symbol of your newfound status, you are forbidden to cut your hair. Unfortunately, untrained Vell-os are a danger to themselves and those around them. They need a firm hand to guide them and keep them from harm. The Bureau of Internal Investigation is that hand; with the help of the device implanted into your central nervous system I will make sure you don't abuse your abilities." Her tone turned businesslike. "I am Commander Krane; you will answer to me in all things. From now on you will be called Ryllaen. You will follow the orders of all Bureau personnel, save when those orders are countermanded by someone of higher authority. You will never speak or act against the Bureau, and will report all persons harbouring ill-intent to the Bureau; you will protect yourself from harm and resist all attempts to free you with all your strength and to the best of your ability. Lastly, you will report all unenslaved telepaths immediately. If you understand me, nod your head."  
  
Ford tried to shake his head, tried to shout denial. He wanted to fight them all, give them a few hard knocks and run for it. They were all standing there, completely unconcerned. To his horror he was passively nodding, his body ignoring his wishes.  
  
Satisfied, Krane turned away. "Llyrell, train him and get him ready for field duty." She left, trailed by the expressionless guards.   
  
Llyrell looked at his new kinsman, sadness emanating from him now that Krane was gone. Ford - Ryllaen - reached back numbly with one hand and touched the enslavement device on the back of his neck. _come ryllaen_ The thought was gentle, though an order nonetheless. _there are many things you must learn about your new life_  
  


* * *

  
  
**_ east of Kania system_**   
  
  
The bridge of the carrier was quiet, the very picture of efficient competence. They had been lurking in this system, awaiting a stray Polaran, for many days, yet the crew were wise enough to show no signs of impatience. The captain was another matter. A low-ranking Bureau operant, he saw this assignment as his chance for advancement. They had been forced to leave several systems in a hurry when confronted by a Polaris force too powerful for them to handle, and the cowardly directive sat ill with the glory-seeking young officer.  
  
"Anything?" The negative report came back and the captain scowled.  
  
"Patience." Ryllaen regarded the captain with concealed scorn. "There is no requirement for haste." Personally he would be glad if they never saw a single Polaris ship.  
  
As always when the Vell-os spoke, there was a short hush of awe from the crew. They all respected the Vell-os, vigilant and untiring protectors of the Federation. Ryllaen wondered how they could be so blind. Oh, they knew their history - they had all read of the Vell-os/Colonial Council wars that had left the few Vell-os planets uninhabitable and choked with deadly radiation - but they, the victorious Federation citizens descended from the Colonial Council, never imagined that the highly respected Vell-os walking amongst them were still their slaves.  
  
A raised shout alerted them to the presence of a new ship on their sensors; a Polaran had just jumped into the system. Striding over quickly, Ryllaen glanced at the console: it was a small ship, big enough for one or two crewmembers only, and alone. He nodded, hiding his sadness behind a grim expression.   
  
"That one. Disable it, do not destroy it. If any other ships approach, fend them off and leave this one to me."  
  
Ryllaen strode through the corridors at a brisk pace. All around him, he sensed the weaves of psychic energy on the carrier becoming sharper and more focused as the crew prepared for battle. He reached the docking bay and paused to gather his thoughts. Manipulating the weaves around him to form a hard shield shell that appeared shimmering blue to the naked eye was commonplace to him now and took little effort. He formed an Arrow - not the most powerful ship a Vell-os could create, but not the weakest, either. Standing motionless at the centre of the Arrow, Ryllaen caused it to rise and leave the docking bay.   
  
The emergence into deep space was like a refreshing draught of cool water. The Polaris ship, a Manta, was close by, evading the Federation fighters with its superior speed and maneuverability. The pilot was brave, Ryllaen gave him that; he did not hesitate to attack the intruders, though he was clearly outnumbered and Ryllaen could sense his shields were dropping fast. Only a bit more left... the Manta took out several of the fighters, burning them out in an instant with its powerful capacitor pulse relay laser. The rest scattered, veering out of the way of the deadly beam and cursing wildly over the hyperlink. Ryllaen hovered nearby, waiting and monitoring the battle intently.   
  
A sudden flux in the weaves caused Ryllaen to dodge away, out of the path of another Manta. Turning quickly, he saw several ships jumping in on the heel of the new Manta, ominous in their biological designs. He knew at once that this force, though numbering the same as the Federation fleet, would easily defeat them. Polaris technology was far more advanced than anything the Federation had managed to achieve. Ryllaen glanced back at the first Manta; it drifted, weapons damaged and the ship stunned. He opened a hyperlink to the carriers.  
  
"Hold them off," he said tersely. Without waiting for a response he shut the link and flew over to the disabled Manta. A moment's search was all it took to find the access hatch and gain entry. Once inside he dissolved the hard blue shell of his Arrow and looked around curiously. It was truly an organic ship; he could feel its awareness, stunned though it was. Its intelligence was somewhat akin to that of a dog. Shutting the battle that raged at a decreasing distance out of his senses, Ryllaen concentrated on the Manta. Somewhere, there was another psychic signature, a distinctly different pattern of weaves. There was only one, which meant that either the pilot was alone or the other crew were dead. Ryllaen hoped for the first. He searched the ship cautiously, steps soft, senses as finetuned as he could make them.   
  
The living ship confused him and masked the other's signature. A sudden warning twist in the weaves behind him caused Ryllaen to duck and turn out of instinct. He glimpsed a swirling grey cloak before the thrown knife grazed his shoulder, causing him to gasp in pain. He began to lash out as he had been trained with a killing blast of energy, remembering just in time that he had orders to keep the Polaran alive. The effort to modify the outpouring of energy so that the Polaran was only stunned was enormous; Ryllaen staggered as the excess energy backlashed into his own body. It took all his strength to stay conscious. Breathing hard, he leaned against the wall for several precious minutes.  
  
It was a moment's work - a longer moment than it should have taken - to manhandle the unconscious Polaran to the access hatch. Ryllaen formed a Dart around them both; he was almost too exhausted to form even that smallest of Vell-os ships. He flew from the Manta into the middle of a fierce battle. It took a bare second for the situation to register. The Federation fleet was losing badly. One carrier was fatally crippled, more than half its crew dead and the rest about to die; the other was fast losing shields as the remaining Polaris fleet concentrated their fire on it. Ryllaen sped away from the battle as fast as he could take the Dart.  
  
"Vell-os!" The voice on the other end of the hyperlink was desperate. Ryllaen recognised the glory-seeker. "Help us! Our jump drive is disabled. You must draw some of them off and give us more time!"  
  
Ryllaen felt as if a knife twisted cruelly in his stomach. "Hold them," he said harshly. "Those are your orders."  
  
He cut the link, screaming curses in his mind. For sure, he did not like the captain, but that did not mean he wished for his death and the death of his crew. But he could not help: he had his own orders. Ryllaen let out an involuntary yelp as needles of fire hammered against his shield, sending pain lancing through his mind. It was all he could do to dodge away from the Mantas hounding him from all sides. And then he could not do even that.  
  
The knife edge was cold and sharp; it brought Ryllaen's senses spiralling from the wide range of the Dart to a much more personal focus. Statue straight in the pose of a piloting Vell-os, he stiffened further.   
  
"Surrender now, Vell-os." The Polaran's words were weak, heavily accented Federation Basic, but determined.  
  
"Kill me, and you will die yourself," Ryllaen replied evenly. He prepared to say more when a direct blast sent the Dart spinning out of control.   
  
Surprised, the Polaran tumbled back against the far wall; the knife left a thin line of red across neck as it fell to the floor. Ryllaen grimaced as the assault continued. He could feel himself losing control. If he could no longer hold the Dart's form he would die, unprotected against the vacuum surrounding him. With strength born of desperation he hyperjumped wildly, grasping for a jump path without thought for destination. On the threshold of hyperspace multiple lasers caught his Dart. Ryllaen screamed, twisting and straining against the immobilizing grip of the hyperspace threshold that held him helpless in the burning laserfire. He crossed the threshold and was wrenched sideways across hyperspace as his struggling pulled him out of the jump path. It felt like a million crystal shards cutting through his mind, and though it lasted for but an instant, it drove Ryllaen to near unconsciousness.  
  
He could not hear his own screaming, or the shouts of the Polaran behind him. He could not sense where he was, could not feel anything but agony. He only saw the planet rushing towards him through a darkened haze. It took all his remaining will to slow his entry so that they were not burnt up in the atmosphere. The jolt as he hit the ground hard, the brunt of the impact borne by his shields, was enough to make him lose sense of everything.  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** Arda belongs to Tolkien. All other planets mentioned belong to Ambrosia Software and ATMOS. Nil'Tanar and Ryllaen are mine.  
  
Unless specifically stated otherwise, everything spoken is in the native language of the speaker. Ie, the Elves speak Sindarin, Nil'Tanar speaks Polaran, and Ryllaen speaks Federation Basic.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The sky was unfamiliar, a pale blue not quite like any he could remember seeing before. It was not the thin misty grey of Nil'ar Peset, nor the deep purple/blue of Nil'ar Riai, nor yet the rich azure of Nil'ar Narada. No, this sky did not belong to any of the training planets, and it was certainly not the artificial sky of the great ringworld Tre'ar Helonis, the habitat of his birth. Nil'Tanar stared at it for a long time, trying to place it. At length he decided it looked so strange because it was in fact a sky and not the green and purple walls of a Manta. That thought brought him to full awareness. In a dizzying rush his memories returned: the Federation fleet, the now fatal damage to his Manta - his first, and his heart ached for the loss - and the distress call; the Vell-os intruder.  
  
Nil'Tanar sat up carefully. He felt more bruised and battered than he'd ever been in his eight decades of life, but he had suffered no serious injuries; the worst was a pounding headache courtesy of the Vell-os energy blast. A quick look around showed that he was alone, save for the unconscious Vell-os, in a landscape of hills and not much else; they were sitting in a small blackened crater caused by the impact of the Vell-os shields, and Nil'Tanar winced to think of what would have happened had the Vell-os lost consciousness earlier. Two of his daggers were in their sheaths, a third lying not far away in the crater. He picked it up and returned it to its proper resting place, touching the final empty sheath briefly with one hand. He had lost the fourth on his Manta against the Vell-os intruder. Nil'Tanar squinted into the sky, studying it for any signs of movement. There were none, and a few attempts on his personal communicator soon convinced him that not only was the planet uninhabited, but so was the rest of the system.   
  
The Polaran cast a considering look on the Vell-os. A quick search reassured him that the jumpsuit contained no hidden weapons, and a somewhat rougher examination told Nil'Tanar that the long-haired telepath was still alive and mostly uninjured, though he was unable to wake him. After a moment he decided that, enemy or no, he could currently see no way of leaving the planet and returning to his station without the Vell-os' aid. With the self-confidence of the young warrior, Nil'Tanar slung the man over his shoulders and started walking towards the glint of water he'd spotted in the distance.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
"My lord, a falling star!"  
  
Elrond looked up, and smiled to see two of his counselors approach him with the excitement of children.  
  
"Indeed there is cause for wonder. Though we have seen them burn across the sky before, never in the light of day," he said, teasing them lightly.  
  
"A _falling_ star, my lord." There was a hint of reproach and laughter in the other's voice.  
  
Glancing at his companion, Glorfindel presented his side of the argument. "Not a star," he said. "Something set aflame falling from high above, though at such a distance I could see no more than the light it cast. It fell and I believe it touched land to the east, beyond the mountains."  
  
Elrohir shrugged. "Stars do not do that," he conceded. "It is strange." He looked hopefully at his father.  
  
"You want to see for yourselves what this burning thing is." Elrond followed their thoughts with ease; he knew his counselors well, and it was easy enough to read on their faces.  
  
"Nothing has tried the borders in months. The lands are peaceful, there are no messages of import to be sent, Elladan has gone to see Cirdan, and-"  
  
"And you want to show me that you can get into as much mischief without your brother as with him," Elrond finished, a smile dancing on his lips. He turned to Glorfindel. "And you?"  
  
"I am curious," the golden-haired Elf-lord said simply.  
  
Elrond laughed lightly. He thought a moment before giving his permission; Elrohir was right in saying he had no urgent need for their presence. "Go, then. Bring tidings of what you find back to me; I am curious also."  
  
The lord of Imladris looked out of the study's window, beyond the valley to the east. His voice, when he spoke, was distant with vision of things the others could not see. "I think you will find a tale like none other we have heard."  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Animal howls and crude sounds came from below, a clearing just visible in the woods at the foot of the hill. They held Nil'Tanar's attention. The sounds seemed out of place in this desolate land, the first sign of animate life he had seen or heard all day. He glanced at the Vell-os; still unconscious, laid down under the semi-shelter of rocks and thick foliage. Cautiously, as silently as he could manage, Nil'Tanar started down towards the source of the sounds. It had been nearly thirty years since he'd last tried to move stealthily on a wooded planet - a training exercise - but he remembered some of it and managed to make little sound. His cloak, the hard grey that blended in more with starships than it did with trees and dirt, was dark enough to give him some camouflage in the shadows of dusk.  
  
The authors of the voices were visible in the light of crude flaming torches. From his vantage point on an outcropping of rock, Nil'Tanar stared at them. Beasts similar to dogs roamed restlessly around the clearing, occasionally lifting muzzle to sky and howling; the others, somewhat humanoid, spoke in harsh angry voices that he could not understand. They wore crude armour of metal and animal skin, and wielded crude weapons poorly alloyed. They seemed little more than beasts themselves. Nil'Tanar backed away silently and returned to his small camp beside the stream.  
  
So. This planet was inhabited, but by primitives. Still it gave Nil'Tanar a little more hope. Perhaps... perhaps his communicator was broken and help was not so nonexistent as he had thought. Or perhaps he might find medicines for the Vell-os. He was worried: the man hadn't woken up at all. He needed the Vell-os for the transport he could provide.  
  
Nil'Tanar shook his head ruefully. He was not Ver'ash to heal the man or fix the equipment. He was Nil'kemorya, a member of the warrior caste. Never before had he felt the desire to be something different. He felt that desire now, sharply, and knew as well that only with warrior training was he likely to survive on this planet. He had the training: Nil'Tanar pushed aside the wish for more with the practicality he had been taught, though the rueful thought occurred that he should have paid more attention in the compulsory six month cross-caste training he had attended back on Nil'ar Peset many years ago. He would seek help in the morning: Iusa, he was so very tired right now.  
  
The Vell-os groaned, his face twisting into an expression of pain that slid beneath the surface as quickly as it had come. Nil'Tanar looked at him hopefully, but he did not stir further. With a soundless sigh the Polaran settled down to keep watch through the night, thinking on the intruder that was his only company. As little as he had seen of him, the Vell-os was not quite what he had expected from those class-room lessons. He had the long hair and the utilitarian jumpsuit, and Nil'Tanar presumed he had the nanite-producing organs as well. But he was not... Nil'Tanar did not know what he had expected. Something more grand, more like the heroes he had envisioned from the history books as a boy, the Vell-os who had interceded between the Colonial Council and the Polaris, bringing the full wrath of the former down on themselves. That wrath had been great: nothing was left of the Vell-os civilization save for some few planets still drenched in deadly radiation seven centuries later in the lonely stretches of galactic east; remnants of their cultural artifacts mouldering in private collections and small museums across the galaxy; and the Vell-os themselves, pitiful and diminished descendants of a once great people, shackled to their conquerors. This Vell-os was nothing like that dimly remembered image. It had been there when he piloted his ship, standing tall and proud, eyes distant and filled with the echo of the wise farseeing gaze of his forebears. But it was gone now, and the man that lay senseless beneath a boulder was nothing more than a part of the Federation that was a thorn in the Polaris' side. Nil'Tanar sighed again and turned back to face the darkness of the forest on all sides. Very soon, he was asleep, a lapse of discipline his past instructors would have frowned upon during training, but understood in the fully-fledged warrior as the exhaustion it was.  
  
  
----------------------------------------------  
  
  
The strange creatures were gone. Nil'Tanar stared down at the clearing in consternation. They had left while he slept, and now he had no one to ask for aid. Not that he knew how to ask and make himself understood without getting himself killed, but he would cross that barrier when he came to it. He set the Vell-os down while he considered his next move. The creatures, primitive though they might be, were the only indication of civilization he had yet seen on this planet. In the end, there was little choice. Nil'Tanar picked up his sleeping burden and began walking, following the clearly visible tracks.  
  
The trees rose higher and thicker about him, until the sun no longer penetrated the leaves and left its mark as a dim pervasive glow. The shadows were deep enough that the young warrior was partially blinded, and the roots of the trees were tangled mazes knotted over the ground. He stumbled over a root that seemed to have moved into his path, the branches that he grabbed for support eluding his grasp. The stumble turned into a fall, the fall into a noisy tumble down the steep side of a small ravine. Instinctively rolling into a ball as best he could while still clutching his burden, Nil'Tanar kept a painful silence as he fell helplessly, bouncing off trees and receiving a multitude of small scratches from the sharp twigs that whipped about in his passage. He hit the stream below with a noisy splash and gasped as the chill invaded his clothes.  
  
Nil'Tanar struggled out of the water, dragged the Vell-os after him. His cloak, heavy and sodden, clung to his arms and legs, hampering his movements. He cursed his own clumsiness as he pushed it back over his shoulders and once again picked up the Vell-os. Nil'Tanar staggered a little; the man was not light, and he'd been carrying him for the better part of two days on a stomach that had not seen sustenance in more than three - the last meal had been several hours before the battle. Groaning at the thought of food and trying to ignore the demands from his stomach and aching arms, Nil'Tanar started towards the end of the ravine.  
  
The crunch of booted foot against stone and deep-throated growl was all the warning he received. Nil'Tanar dropped the Vell-os and took up a defensive posture, knives in hand. The trees were a visual barrier he could not pierce, though the trunks here were wider apart and left more room between them; he caught but a glimpse of the leaping wolf before it was upon him. Nil'Tanar shifted to the side and brought his knife up and down across the creature's throat; it fell twitching to the ground. More wolves came, and strange humanoids. Training and instinct took over. The Polaran warrior fought grimly, knowing that it was only through their disorganisation and relative clumsiness that he was still standing at all. Adrenalin had given him more strength than he had thought he possessed a moment ago, but he was surrounded; he could not move to a better position for fear of leaving the Vell-os exposed. He killed a creature, and another and another. Wounds were received as fast as he dealt them, and still more creatures were appearing.  
  
_Iusa_, Nil'Tanar thought in despair. _There are so many!_   
  
The attacks came from all directions. He blocked a blow, leaving his side open. Out of the corner of his eye Nil'Tanar saw a crudely wielded spear dive in with deadly accuracy, helpless to defend against it. And out of the corner of his eye, he saw the spear and its wielder become wreathed in killing energy, saw them disintegrate in a burning flash that left only scorched ground and the smell of ozone.  
  
The attackers drew back; Nil'Tanar risked a glance down. The Vell-os was finally awake, but that one blast had been too much in his weakened state and he lay in a sweating, shivering heap, eyes glazed with exhaustion and pain. Shrill cries mixed with anger and fear warned Nil'Tanar of his peril; he looked up to see the creatures press their attack with greater ferocity. A sword brushed his side, sharp teeth dug into his leg. Nil'Tanar let out a howl of pain and killed both creatures in a frantic blur of strength. His legs buckled beneath him and he fell to his knees. He waited for the creatures to close in, determined to fight to the end. Though such an end; Nil'Tanar had been fully prepared to die in battle, in defence of the Polaris race. This, this dying at the hands of strange creatures on an unknown planet, was not what he had imagined would be his final journey.  
  
He blinked blood out of his eyes and waited. And waited. Dazed with pain and exhaustion, Nil'Tanar slowly realised that the creatures weren't attacking. In fact, they were fleeing, and many were falling dead as they ran. He did not question this small miracle, letting relief wash over him. Struggling to rise, Nil'Tanar dimly heard new voices shouting words he could not understand, until he lifted his head and saw... others, weapons aimed at him in a distinctly threatening manner, faces stern. They shouted again; he could only shake his head.  
  
Something brushed against his uninjured leg; he looked down at the Vell-os. "They said," the telepath struggled to speak, "not to move and... drop your weapons."  
  
Cautiously, knowing he had no real choice and no strength left to resist, Nil'Tanar loosened his blood-slicked grip on his knives. They fell, and some of those facing him relaxed. They called out another command. Nil'Tanar did not hear it, or hear the Vell-os' translation. He felt his body collapse, distantly, as if watching from afar, and followed the path his knives had taken into darkness.  
  
  
  
  
  
  


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Thankyou to the people who reviewed!   
_L. Byron:_ I'll try to keep it that way :) Thanks for being my first ever reviewer! I'm flattered that you put me in your favourite stories list.  
_greanleafgrl:_ Thanks for your review! You're not far wrong about the title: it's from "Until the End of Time" by... I'm not sure who sings it, to be honest. It happened to be running on continuous loop through my head when I needed a title.   



	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** Everything of Lord of the Rings belongs to Tolkien. Everything of Escape Velocity: Nova belongs to Ambrosia Software and ATMOS. Nil'Tanar and Ryllaen are mine.  
  
  
Unless specifically stated otherwise, everything spoken is in the native language of the speaker. Ie, the Elves speak Sindarin, Nil'Tanar speaks Polaran, and Ryllaen speaks Federation Basic.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Nothing else could have woken him, nothing else had the power to call him out of so deep a sleep than the tangible threat to his own life. Ryllaen rose into consciousness, breaking the surface of sleep, and the emotions of the battle swept over him. The Polaran, determined, despairing. The... creatures, minds such as he had never felt before, twisted and stunted, filled with rage and hate. He opened his eyes with difficulty, saw nothing but the Polaran's feet. After a moment he realised that the Polaran was standing over him. The Polaran was _protecting_ him. Ryllaen was tempted to close his eyes again and trust to the Polaran's obvioius skill. But he had his orders, and they did not allow for laziness or acknowledge the pain of a mind flayed by hyperspace. He attempted to rise and ruefully discovered that, allowance or no, he was in no condition to move. Instead, he watched the Polaran fight. The grey cloak hung heavy at his back; Ryllaen distantly wondered what kind of people would indulge in so frivolous an item of clothing which had no place on a starship. It served only to increase the aura of mystery that shrouded the Polaris. The grey cloak swung around, brushing Ryllaen's face with cold dampness; the Polaran ducked and weaved around the blows of the creatures that so far had paid no attention to what he guarded. It came to Ryllaen, slowly, that the Polaran was losing, the blows that passed his defence becoming more severe by the moment. He saw the Polaran leave an opening in defence of a killing blow, saw another dart in from the side. Ryllaen mustered his will and spun the weaves into a lethal pattern around the creature. It died. All strength left the Vell-os' body, and the deep peaceful dark beckoned to him.  
  
Ryllaen felt more than saw the arrivals of others. They were bright in his mind, clean and sharp. They drove the twisted ones away, then turned to the two aliens. Ryllaen almost cried out aloud at the intensity of their regard. They were... almost kin. Almost Vell-os, yet not. Their weaves were strong and focused, and well adept at avoiding detection, for he had not felt their approach. Yet they seemed controlled by instinct rather than by learned skill. They did not speak to his mind as a Vell-os would have, and he did not know if they could.  
  
He wished to sleep. Only a sense of danger remaining kept him hovering just above the dark. They spoke, and their voices were clear and ringing, their words unkown to Ryllaen. But telepathy was not always a curse: he understood them well enough. He gathered what little strength he had left and conveyed their meaning to the Polaran who yet held to his defence despite his many wounds. The danger vanished, suddenly it seemed, and its disappearance freed him to slip into the gentle, painless rest he desired.  
  
  
---------------------------  
  
  
Sleep, when it ended, ended of its own volition, his body having received the minimum rest it required to survive. Ryllaen opened his eyes. The first thing that met his gaze, across the separation of a campfire, was that of the Polaran. His wounds were clean and dressed, and his sheaths were empty at his sides.  
  
Ryllaen's brow furrowed. He chased an elusive memory. "You are my prisoner," he said.  
  
The Polaran glanced around the campsite, looking longest at the guards hovering nearby. He laughed. "If I am a prisoner, Vell-os, I am not yours." His voice was rich; the foreign words rolling off his tongue had an exotic sound that Ryllaen found he liked, though he could sense the derision they contained easily. "What is this planet you have landed us on? These people are neither Polaran, Federation nor Auroran. They do not speak a language I recognise."  
  
He shrugged, ignoring the pain the movement sent running up his arm; he had forgotten the scratch the Polaran had given him on the Manta. "I don't know." He would have said more, but one of their captors approached. They both fell silent and looked at him.  
  
He was like all of them: tall, slender with fair features more exotic than those of the Polaran, and with piercing eyes. He was clothed in the same garb as them all, in a style and colours that were unfamiliar to the aliens yet seemed suited to their wooded environment. His hands were empty, the weapons slung over his shoulder or safely resting in their sheaths. Ryllaen quickly ran through his surface thoughts. There was suspicion, wariness, and a great deal of curiosity, but none of the hostility he had feared to find. Tentatively stretching his probe deeper, Ryllaen touched the edges of a natural block. Cautious of discovery, he withdrew before his touch was felt.  
  
"Who are you and what reason do you have for trespassing in our realm?" the native demanded sternly. The language was lyrical and as beautiful as the speaker, and as completely unrecognizable. "I do not know your words, strange Men." He looked at Ryllaen. "Yet you seem to understand mine."  
  
The Polaran gazed at Ryllaen, silently demanding a translation. Given it, he stood slowly, careful of his bandaged wounds and the reaction of the onlookers. The guards' attention shifted; though they did not move, they watched with increased alertness. He bowed, the gesture shortened by necessity. "I am Nil'Tanar of the Nil'kemorya Polaris."  
  
"I am Ryllaen, a Vell-os of the Federation. We... are lost. I do not know what realm this is." He offered a semi-bow that was a movement of the head alone.  
  
Looking from one to the other, the native nodded slowly. "I am Legolas, of the Elven realm of Mirkwood. I know of neither Polaris nor Federation, yet you are courteous enough. Tell me," he looked sharply at Ryllaen, "how it is that I understand you."  
  
Ryllaen grimaced, translated for the Polaran, then answered. "I am Vell-os, a telepath. We have that skill, to understand the sense behind the words and to allow others to understand us, no matter the language."  
  
"You are a wizard." It was almost a question.  
  
"Perhaps," he replied cautiously, not really comprehending the confusion of surface thoughts associated with the word.  
  
"Legolas!" The cry arose from outside the campsite. Another Elf ran in; he shot a glance at the prisoners before delivering his report. "We followed the tracks. You guessed right: they extend a day's walk into the hills and stop where the blue flame fell. There are none others approaching or leaving the area in any direction."  
  
"Vell-os?" Nil'Tanar spoke in a harsh whisper.  
  
Ryllaen answered the demand without looking away from the Elves conversing nearby. "They found our crash site. It appears that we weren't just saved by good fortune - they were coming to see what the 'blue flame' was. They've decided we weren't in league with the... uh, 'orcs' - those creatures that attacked. They're trying to decide what we are. Seems they haven't seen anything like us before."  
  
The Polaran laughed shortly. "No, I don't expect they have."  
  
Looking around, Ryllaen could only agree. The inhabitants of this planet seemed primitive, though he sensed a depth to their minds behind the natural block they all seemed to possess. He doubted they had ever seen machine-woven cloth manufactured from synthetic materials before, or the metal of the Polaran's blades; he could see, off to the side, an Elf studying the knives closely, turning them over and over in his palms. And even in the Federation it was unusual to see a Vell-os, who were few in number; to see a Polaran at all was like seeing a myth come to life. Idly he wondered what the Elves made of them, who were so obviously different from both the Elves and each other.  
  
The smell of roasting meat caught and held Ryllaen's attention. His mouth watered; looking across at Nil'Tanar, he could see the same reaction in the Polaran's expression. As one they stared longingly at another campfire where food was being prepared. Neither had eaten in days. It showed.  
  
Legolas turned back to them. "You are trespassers. You will-" He stopped, seeing that they paid no heed to him. Following ther gazes, he smiled, an upward turn of the lips that was barely perceptible. "You are hungry. After you have eaten you will be taken to the king."  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
The palace was a welcome sight for the scouting party. It was not that the Men they had captured had given them trouble - indeed, they could barely walk and offered no resistance - but that they were strange, even to the most experienced Elf amongst them. The grey-cloaked one limped, using a sturdy stick for support; Legolas had allowed it, and had allowed them to walk with hands untied and unblindfolded, for they plainly could not move otherwise. He was dark-eyed and dark-haired, made darker in contrast to his pale skin, and moved like a warrior. Though he was young, if Legolas was any judge of the age of a Man, he was skilled; he had very few scars, and most of those were recent additions.  
  
The other, pale as well, with hair longer and more unruly than any male Elf would have worn it, tired easily and slept so deeply it was hard to awaken him. It was he that made the Elves most uneasy. He was no warrior, that much was obvious, but they had seen him kill with condensed lightning that he seemed to shape out of the very air. He had a power the like of which they had not seen before. If Legolas had felt the slightest trace of evil in him, he would have been killed without hesitation.  
  
The prisoners exchanged short words. The Elves listened intently, as they had to all such infrequent conversations. Though they could not understand the words they could hear the differences in speech distinctly enough to know that they spoke two wholly different languages; Legolas presumed they understood each other by the power of the Vell-os. The exchange was, as always, strained. They were not comrades, these two. Uneasy and unwilling allies, perhaps; no kindly feelings were lost between them. And yet they had both saved the life of the other.  
  
The party passed through the gates into the caves of the palace. The Men said something, an argument or comment. Legolas halted abruptly outside the great doors to the throne room. This had to stop now. It had been acceptable in the forest, but not in the presence of his father, not when he suspected them capable of more. He turned to the Vell-os.  
  
"You can hear and speak to me."  
  
Ryllaen nodded, expression neutral.  
  
"You can make it so that your companion can also hear and speak to me." That was a guess and a question.  
  
He nodded again, warily.  
  
"Then do so. And you will make it so that all within hearing can understand."  
  
Ryllaen hesitated, then nodded slowly. "That is... more difficult. But I think I have the strength for it now."  
  
Satisfied, Legolas motioned for the guards to open the great doors. He approached the throne, the prisoners and scout party trailing after him, and bowed. "My lord. Two Men within our borders. We found them fighting a raiding party: orcs and wolves."   
  
Thranduil turned sharp eyes on the pair. "Who are you and for what reason do you trespass in my realm?"  
  
The Polaran, who had glanced at his companion in surprise when they had entered the throne room, bowed with as much grace as his injuries allowed. "I am Nil'Tanar of the Nil'kemorya Polaris."  
  
The Vell-os nodded, the gesture short but no less respectful. "I am Ryllaen, a Vell-os of the Federation."  
  
Brow raised, Thranduil gazed at them. He had not missed any of the signs his son had picked up. "Where are these lands you speak of? They are not names of which I am familiar. Why have you come here?"  
  
The Men looked at each other. It was obvious that they were waiting for the other to speak first, and equally obvious that neither was willing to yield. They glared at each other heatedly, their situation rapidly forgotten in the face of the escalating competition. After a long silence, Legolas and Thranduil exchanged amused glances. They knew how to wait, but their patience for such games was limited. The prince stepped forward, the movement slight and designed to draw attention.  
  
Glancing at him, Ryllaen raised a brow at the Polaran. "Well? Are you going to answer?" He deliberately designed his tone to contain as much arrogant superiority as possible.  
  
"Me?" Nil'Tanar looked annoyed. "I was not the one who-" He broke off the half-formed sentence, eyes straying to the listening Elves. "You brought us here, Vell-os. It wasn't my idea." Anger, there. No, they were not friends, these two.  
  
Ryllaen's expression was a grim mask. "It wasn't mine either. If you hadn't held a knife to my throat I would not have been forced to jump with so little preparation."  
  
Nil'Tanar laughed sharply. "So this is my fault? What did you expect me to do? Invading Polaris territory is not a good survival trait, Vell-os, and neither is attempting to take a Nil'kemorya captive."  
  
"Attempt?" Ryllaen's smile was cutting. "It was easy."  
  
The young warrior stilled completely, visibly fighting the urge to retaliate physically. When he spoke, his voice was brittle with fury and contempt. "Another second and you would have died yourself. You sacrificed two carriers for one Polaran warrior. I suppose that means nothing to you."  
  
Ryllaen did not reply. His expression was harsh and unyielding. Yet under it... under it was hurt. Pain.  
  
Thranduil frowned. This had taught him much, and left more questions. The sense of the words - for it was the sense conveyed by the power of the Vell-os and not the words themselves, which he could still hear in an undercurrent of strange syllables - were confusing, a depth vast and filled with unknown history. Ships and... stars? He leaned forward; the Men started as if they had momentarily forgotten where they stood. Judging from their unguarded words, Thranduil believed this to be the case, though he did not fully understand how the Vell-os could do so and still maintain the spell of understanding. "As you do not see fit to answer my questions, you will be held until such a time as you are more agreeable." He gestured; guards led them away, and most of the court also left at his silent command. Thranduil turned to his son.  
  
"They are a mystery, Father," Legolas said quietly. He related the rest of his report.  
  
"A mystery," Thranduil agreed. "A dangerous one. And yours to solve."  
  
Legolas nodded; he expected no less, and would have been disappointed if his father had assigned the task elsewhere. It had, after all, been his idea to seek the source of the blue flame.  
  



	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** Mirkwood and Elves belong to Tolkien. Vell-os and Polarans belong to Ambrosia Software and ATMOS. Ryllaen, Nil'Tanar and Eiliant are mine.  
  
Anything spoken is in the native language of the speaker unless specifically stated otherwise. Ie, the Elves speak Sindarin, Ryllaen speaks Federation Basic, and Nil'Tanar speaks Polaran.  
  


* * *

  
  
They were in cells separated by a single wall, thin enough that they could talk with ease had they desired it. Food was brought by the guards and eagerly accepted. Noting this, the guards brought more; they were not unkind, and could well see that the two were half-starved. Ryllaen slept, deeply and uneasily. He was not yet strong enough that he could do without it, and no longer so weak that the dreams did not trouble him. Nil'Tanar sat against one stone wall, observing the coming and going of the guards by the sounds he could hear through the stout wooden door. Their voices were clear and light, and it seemed that the Vell-os was capable of partitioning his mind and keep the translation running even while asleep. Nil'Tanar listened carefully, learning what he could, for he disliked relying on the Vell-os for communication. The Elves speculated on their prisoners and talked of a great feast held recently. He could not understand many of their jokes, but Nil'Tanar could not help the smile that brushed his lips at times. For guards they were light-hearted and merry.  
  
Long hours passed, day and night, and Nil'Tanar slipped often into a doze. His wounds were healed enough that they did not unduly discomfort him; the Elves' healing and his own nanites had seen to it. He jerked awake suddenly and stared almost expectantly at the door. It was too quiet, and the sudden cessation of noise - or the burst before it - had woken him. Just before the lock clicked and the door opened, he recognised the smell that troubled his senses: burnt wood and the sharp tang of released energy.  
  
Ryllaen stood in the doorway, holding himself tall and stiff. Come on, he whispered.  
  
For some indefinable reason he was angry; Nil'Tanar didn't move. You killed them?  
  
Frowning, Ryllaen looked over his shoulder. In the light of the torches could be seen the sprawl of loose hair and still bodies, three altogether. No. I am not that ungrateful. He passed a hand over his eyes, willing the dizziness and pain away. It had taken more of his strength and control to keep them alive than it would have to kill them, but he had been determined. He had caused the deaths of enough innocents. They will wake feeling as though a shuttle had landed on their head, no more. Let's go, now, before more come. I cannot do that again if I am to have the strength to weave a Dart.  
  
Why should I trust you?  
  
Ryllaen laughed harshly. You want to get off this planet, don't you?  
  
Nil'Tanar nodded slowly. He did, but he worried about the Vell-os' intentions. And when we leave?  
  
Don't forget, Polaran, you are still my prisoner, and I fully intend to carry out my orders.  
  
Nil'Tanar frowned. The Vell-os spoke angrily, or perhaps impatiently. He stood, knowing he had no real choice. He needed the telepath, who he suspected wished to leave this planet as much as he. Once they were off the ground, he would find a way to escape the Vell-os without killing himself in the process. Let's go.  
  


* * *

  
  
The King held court, listening to a Daleman explain why exactly the price of wine had increased. Thranduil's face was impassive, but the Daleman faltered only a little when he tentatively put forward a new price. Legolas, standing to the side, watched with amusement as his father took his time to respond. He would drive a hard bargain, and would probably force the Daleman lower than the merchant would wish, but he knew of the unseasonable weather that had caused the Dorwinion vineyards to suffer. The price he offered in the end would not be unreasonable.   
  
The Daleman licked his lips, shaking his head already at the counteroffer. He listened politely though, and began to speak in his turn. He was clearly nervous about asking the Elven King for a greater price, and Thranduil was not - at this time - inclined to make him more comfortable. But Legolas was surprised when Thranduil held up his hand abruptly in a demand for silence, a frown gracing his face. The Daleman's words stumbled to a halt, his face pale as he tried to think of what he could have said to anger the being before him.  
  
Legolas stepped forward. he queried, speaking in the Common Tongue for the benefit of the merchant.  
  
There was a distant look on Thranduil's face, as if he were trying to pinpoint something on the edge of hearing. His eyes were troubled. Legolas, I think you should check on your prisoners. His words were Sindarin and softly spoken, not intended for the Daleman.  
  
Legolas nodded and left quickly. The King was tied to Mirkwood by magics that Legolas did not fully understand, and he wondered what his father had sensed. He walked the passages with light silent feet. He was not uncomfortable here, for though the forest was his heart and soul, he had grown up in the palace with its bright torches and carved walls of stone.  
  
His steps slowed as he neared the dungeon - or rather, the cellars hastily pressed into service as a dungeon. Something was wrong, the place too quiet. Hand on the hilt of his long knife, Legolas moved forward warily. He entered the cellars; sight of the guards caused him to freeze. The cells were open and empty, the bolts of one door burnt entirely away. Legolas knelt by the side of the guards.  
  
  
  
The guard did not answer, lying still as death, eyes closed, his long knife missing from its sheath. But he was not dead; Legolas breathed a sigh of relief, feeling the pulse and seeing the slight rise and fall of chest. He reassured himself that the others were similarly alive, and rose.  
  
Within moments the alarm was raised and the search parties organized. The Men could not have left the palace, for both the gate and the river-passage were firmly closed, yet they were not found. What was discovered after a time was a tunnel, melted through stone and earth it seemed, in a distant seldom-used part of the palace, that held the light of day on one end.  
  


* * *

  
  
Nil'Tanar reached out and grabbed Ryllaen's arm, stopping him from falling yet again. Make your ship now, Vell-os, before you run into a tree, he hissed.  
  
The long mane of unruly hair shook wearily. I cannot, Ryllaen replied. I don't have the strength. The tunnel was all I could handle.  
  
I've seen you do more in battle.  
  
In space! Ryllaen snapped. He stumbled, wrenched his arm out of Nil'Tanar's firm grip, and hurried on. They were putting as much distance between the ELves and themselves as they could. It's harder to work in a gravity well where the weaves are so thick. And I haven't yet recovered fully from the crash.  
  
Nil'Tanar shook his head in disgust and dodged around a tree with thick entangling roots. Then he sighed and went back for the Vell-os. Hauling him to his feet, he said, You should have waited, then.  
  
Ryllaen didn't reply. He could think of nothing to say, and in truth wished to say nothing. The commands of his Bureau masters drove him, a compulsion he could neither resist nor ignore. More than that, fear drove him. Fear, and a realisation he was unwilling to acknowledge. In desperation he ran, concentrating on placing one foot safely in front of the other, as if by keeping his mind on that one task he could pretend ignorance. Growing certainty terrified him.  
  
At last they stopped, far from the palace and the tunnel through which they had fled. The forest around them was dark and sight of the sun was obscured by the close-knit foliage. Thick cobwebs dangled between branches grey with lichen. Ryllaen looked around and shivered.  
  
I don't like this place, he said.  
  
Nil'Tanar frowned. We can't very well go back. Iusia, you could have shown some thought! Those cells would have been fine until you'd slept to your satisfaction.  
  
Glaring at him, Ryllaen opened his mouth to retaliate, then thought better of it. He sighed. We must keep moving; they'll be following us. But I don't like the forest ahead.  
  
Nil'Tanar feigned unconcern. One direction is as good as another. Choose whichever you like, Vell-os. Following closely behind, senses alert for any danger, he suppressed a shiver of his own. Those cobwebs... he had seen spiders before, none bigger than his thumb, but these were something else. He did not want to meet the spider that could spin webs like that, not without a better weapon than the knife shoved through his belt.  
  
And in the end, he was right to wish for something better. The sun fled the skies, taking with it every sliver of light that penetrated through to the ground. As soon as full darkness fell, the cobwebs came down like great nets to enmesh them. A burst of energy from Ryllaen lit a giant spider like a torch and revealed their peril to them. Many eyes glinted around them, reflecting that momentary illumination. Nil'Tanar stabbed at one black furry body, but the webs encumbered him and the spider pranced back out of reach unharmed. A great high-pitched shriek of many voices rose up around them and the spiders pressed forward. They could only put up a brief ineffectual struggle against the webs and the paralysis brought on by many spider bites.


	5. Chapter 5

The horses stopped at the bank of the stream. Their riders gazed ahead, at the trees that cut across their path like a dark wall, impenetrable save for the single path. The trail of rumour had led from Rivendell to here, and still urged them east.  
  
Mirkwood. Must we enter that forest?  
  
Glorfindel raised a golden brow. Do you fear the spiders? he asked, and laughed merrily as he dodged the lazy punch thrown his way.  
  
Indeed not. But we must pay our respects to King Thranduil were we to enter his land, and you know what happened when last we set foot in his palace.  
  
You mean the time you and Elladan set fire to the tapestries in the great hall? I recall Thranduil was not so pleased.  
  
A light blush coloured Elrohir's cheeks in response to his companion's mirth. It was not our intention, he muttered. Leastways, it was not we who nested a black squirrelling in Father's pack.  
  
Lord Elrond was not so foolish as to believe only young Legolas at fault. He provided the squirrel, yet I wager the idea was not his. Glorfindel's sharp gaze bored into Elrohir's profile.  
  
The younger Elf shifted on Alagos' back. The fact remains that I do not wish to meet our Silvan cousins, he said a shade too quickly.  
  
Glorfindel shrugged. The trail goes east. Perhaps Thranduil has forgotten the tapestries - near a hundred years have passed. His ringing laughter remained in the air after he had disappeared under the dark eaves.  
  
Glaring balefully after him, Elrohir nudged Alagos into the forest. At length he broke out into a smile. He did not wish to see Thranduil again, still dreading the Woodland King's memory, but Legolas was another matter. That Elf, a bare few centuries younger, seemed to bring out all the considerable mischief in the twins.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
The trail of the two clumsy Men weaved back and forth, sometimes doubling back on itself, indicating that they had no sense of direction whatsoever. Legolas would have been amused if the overall trend didn't lead south. South, and west. Still, they had travelled a fair distance before the trail stopped abruptly. The Elves spread out, both on the ground and in the trees. The tracks were clear to read: the Men had stumbled into a nest of spiders. The charred husk of one lay against a tree, and drops of black blood were scattered about. Something glittered in the leaf debris; Legolas picked it up.  
  
he called. Your blade has bitten deep in the night.  
  
The Silvan Elf took the long knife, washed to the hilt in sticky spider blood. It has been used well, then. I do not begrudge your Men my blade against such foes. Eyes gleaming, Eiliant cleaned the knife carefully before returning it to its sheath. Though I will have words with them regarding the taking, he continued.  
  
Legolas nodded absently. He too was eager to find the Men, though not for the reasons that might be supposed. His father had been angry at the escape - more at the damage to his palace than the loss of the Men themselves, Legolas thought - yet both clearly saw that the Men could have as easily killed the guards as send them into a healing sleep. The power that could forge such a tunnel... Legolas shuddered. And yet the Men displayed an appalling lack of sense. The signs of a spider nest were easily seen, and they had walked straight into it. It was as foolish as following on the heels of an orcish raiding party.  
  
A call came from the trees: the spiders' path had been found. The Elves set off again, moving quickly. The spiders moved fast when they wished and already had a head start on the Elves. They would have to hurry if they were to catch up before nightfall.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
The closeness of the air bodes ill.  
  
Elrohir glanced at his companion. Do you fear the spiders?  
  
Refusing to be baited, Glorfindel merely smiled. No more than you. But listen: they are restless.  
  
The horses halted at their riders' quiet commands, the Elves falling silent. The air was dense and muted sound in an unpleasant way. They could hear black squirrels rustling in the leaves, the murmur of the swift Morn Nen behind them, and, distantly to the north, the chittering of spiders. A large group it seemed, taunting.  
  
Without a word they dismounted and unslung their bows. Leaving Asfaloth and Alagos to wait on the Road, the Elves stepped soundlessly into the undergrowth. It did not take them long to follow the chittering to its source, nor long to assess the situation. The spiders were ranged on the ground and in the trees amongst their thick webs. Two bundles hung high from a branch, wrapped in sticky cocoons, were at the centre of their attention. One cocoon wriggled and swung constantly, the other giving an occasional twitch. Every so often a spider would prod a bundle, causing frenzied struggles, and would dance away with the high pitched hiss that did it for laughter.  
  
Glorfindel and Elrohir fitted arrows to their bows and took careful aim. Whatever was in those bundles, they would not let the spiders keep their meal. They let loose their arrows, and two spiders fell with shrieks of surprise and pain. Then a storm of arrows flew through the air, their own and others that came from the opposite side. Glorfindel smiled grimly as they and the unseen Wood-elves created short-lived havoc amongst the spiders.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
The suffocating greyness fell away. Allowed breath and free movement all at once, Nil'Tanar and Ryllaen blinked to see the Elves standing over them with drawn knives, cutting away the spiderwebs. Once their task was accomplished the Elves turned away to join the hunt for the fleeing spiders.  
  
Finding themselves alone for the moment, Ryllaen and Nil'Tanar glanced at each other, one thought in both their minds. It would not be good to be recaptured. They rose on unsteady feet, and ran in the direction opposite to that from which the ringing shouts and shrill spider-screams emanated. They relaxed a little when no outcry followed their movement, though they ran as fast as they could.  
  
Whither do you go in such haste?  
  
Ryllaen yelped and scrambled back, falling over in his rush to get away from the two Elves that had appeared seemingly from nowhere in front of them.   
  
Stopping abruptly, Nil'Tanar shot him an astonished glance. They had not gained freedom as they had hoped, but these Elves were not even threatening them. The Polaran looked back at them, wondering what had caused Ryllaen's wide-eyed panic.  
  
Glorfindel raised a brow. The long-haired Man had gone pale and was staring at him in absolute terror. He had only asked a question, and surely not one that warranted this reaction. Have I turned into an orc? he asked Elrohir in a low voice.  
  
You are as fair as ever. Perhaps he has never seen such beauty as yours before. Elrohir laughed, receiving a glower for his troubles.  
  
Grabbing Ryllaen's arm, Nil'Tanar hauled him to his feet. he hissed. There are only two of them.  
  
Get away. We must get away, Ryllaen muttered wildly. He was pale, the blood drained from his face with soul-deep terror. He closed his eyes and, with great difficulty, weaved a Dart around himself and the Polaran. The walls were translucent, too thin to hold an atmosphere of its own. At that moment Ryllaen could not have cared less.   
  
The Dart rose with almost ungoverned speed, smashing through the thick foliage above and disappearing into the sky.  
  
All the Elves who saw it cried out in astonishment, save Legolas and the Elves of Rivendell. The Mirkwood prince merely looked up into a nearby tree. Galind! Please tell me they do not go south.  
  
The call came down: They fly west! There was a pause that lasted for an hour while those below gathered after the slaying of the spiders and awaited word. They have fallen into the hills!  
  
Legolas sighed. The hills were swarming with orcs. I have never seen Men so capable of throwing themselves into trouble. He turned to the Rivendell Elves without any sign of surprise at meeting them in Mirkwood. Lord Glorfindel, what did you do to them?  
  
Incredulous, Glorfindel stared at the smiling prince while Elrohir choked back a laugh. I did nothing! Realising he sounded overly defensive, Glorfindel modulated his expressive tone. Who are these wizards?  
  
Legolas shrugged lightly. Strange Men the like of which we have never before encountered, but recently escaped from our hold. Do you go to see my father? I must find the Men before they get themselves killed. They are certainly trying their best.  
  
Elrohir and Glorfindel looked at each other; they suspected that this was the tale they had come to find. We would join you, if you are willing.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
The blue shell disintegrated with disconcerting irregularity. Ryllaen collapsed, barely conscious, to the ground, while Nil'Tanar scanned their surroundings with a suspicious eye.  
  
Vell-os! No, don't close your eyes. Vell-os, why did you land? Get us off this planet.  
  
Ryllaen looked down at the fist entangled in cloth at his chest, pulling him half up. He blinked wearily, too exhausted to resist. I can't. No, don't - I _can't_. I thought at first, that it was just weakness, that if I just regained my strength, but- He looked into the Polaran's angry dark eyes. This planet, the weaves... it resists me. There is something here, something hidden from my senses - the veil is thin, I can almost see _through_... Ryllaen trailed away, and continued slowly. It's as if it's rejecting me somehow. Every time, it's getting harder to manipulate physical force. I don't think I'll be able to do as much next time. He looked away, for the moment the pain in his head was eclipsed by a far deeper pain in his heart. And even if I could, it wouldn't matter.  
  
Why not? Nil'Tanar shook the man until the glazing eyes focussed back on him. Why wouldn't it matter, Vell-os?  
  
I don't know where we are. A whisper, that, so soft Nil'Tanar was uncertain he'd heard it at all. I don't know where we _are_. I'm alone.  
  
Shaking his head, the Polaran said, So we take it jump by jump, map out a path. Sooner or later we'll find a system you'll recognise.  
  
No, you don't understand. Swallowing, Ryllaen struggled with the words he didn't want to, and had to, speak. I am Vell-os. We are a hive mind: we speak to each other, mind to mind. We feel each other's presence.  
  
Nil'Tanar started to speak, and Ryllaen raised his voice over him, the words rolling out now like an unstoppable wave. The strength of both determines how far we can speak. I'm T2, almost T1. Even if I were only T4, I could sense another T4 at least two jumps away. I'm _alone_, Polaran. I can't feel anyone, anywhere.  
  
Ryllaen closed his eyes, barely noticing when Nil'Tanar drew away. He'd acknowledged it now, and it brought him no relief. Always, since the beginning of his training, he'd sensed other Vell-os. If he'd tried hard enough, he had always been able to seek out Llyrell, the most powerful Vell-os now alive, and one of the very few T1s. He'd tried long and hard while swinging in the spider cocoon, and sensed nothing. Nothing at all. He was alone, truly alone as he had never been before. The thought terrified him more than the thought of never escaping this planet. He had grown to depend on that slight communion, the only comfort any Vell-os could safely give or receive, the only freedom.  
  
How far? How far, Vell-os? The question was quiet, grim.  
  
Fifteen, twenty jumps in a straight run. More, perhaps, if there is even a jump that will link us back to a known system.  
  
A wormhole?  
  
Ryllaen opened his eyes, stared up at the endless sky. The probability of finding a stable one is near nonexistant. They are few and far between. Even if we did, there is no guarantee it will take us any closer. The output of wormholes follows no known pattern.  
  
There was a long silence.   
  
Nil'Tanar sat down on a convenient boulder. I refuse to be stranded on this planet with you, Vell-os. We will find a safe place to rest, you will gather your strength, and then you will try again. Perhaps when we have left the gravity well you will be able to hold the form better.  
  
In the mean time, you've left us out here without weapons or supplies. I say we go back the way we came. Those Elves seemed decent enough. We'll let them recapture us and rest in their cells.  
  
Standing abruptly, Ryllaen filled his voice with the cold arrogance that was his only shield against despair. I cannot allow that.  
  
Nil'Tanar stared at him. Why not?  
  
Standing orders: I must resist all attempts at capture. I must escape at any opportunity. The shield was imperfect; bitterness crept through the cracks.  
  
Incredulous, Nil'Tanar's voice rose in frustration. Don't be stupid, Vell-os! Would you rather die out here in the wilds of an unknown planet?  
  
Ryllaen rounded on him, eyes blazing with a sudden fury. I _cannot_ disobey orders! Ever! I am not _free_ to do as I wish!  
  
Taken aback, Nil'Tanar fell silent and bit his lip. There was an inflection to _free_ that he had not missed, and that brought to mind old history lessons. What had the schoolmasters said? That after the Colonial Council / Vell-os Wars, the remaining Vell-os had been enslaved, and were still enslaved. Nil'Tanar had not believed it then, when he had only been Tanar, in a classroom full of young not-yet-warriors. How could one force a telepath to do anything against his will, let alone one as powerful as the proud and noble Vell-os? Now... he saw the bitter truth in Ryllaen's expression. A surge of pity welled up in him.  
  
he said quietly, all anger gone. It's true. You are a slave.  
  
Ryllaen stared at him, then turned away. You are mistaken, Polaran, he said. But he said it aloud, and provided none of the mental translation that had become almost second-nature.  
  
_Hah_, Nil'Tanar thought, feeling the abrupt withdrawal of the other. He returned to more immediate issues. Well, then. We return to the Elves, and we ask for aid. Will that suit you, Vell-os?  
  
The telepath nodded wearily, and began walking with leaden steps. Later he would be glad that the Polaran had found a way around the orders that bound his actions with unbreakable chains. For now, he cared not at all, drowned as he was in old, helpless despair.


	6. Chapter 6

It was always there. Constant, unrelenting, like a jagged wound across his mind. The energy blasts had left him feeling sick and dizzy, and the Dart half-formed out of panic and fear had felt as if he were tearing the wound open with excruciating slowness. Ryllaen trudged behind the Polaran, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the edge of the flapping cloak. He fought the pain, only partly successful in keeping it at bay, just as he fought the compulsion to form a Dart and leave the planet now, returning with the Polaran to Bureau Headquarters. In this at least he was triumphant: to attempt such a thing while his mind had not yet recovered from being dragged crossways through hyperspace would be tantamount to suicide, and he was forbidden that final release.  
  
There had been times when he had tried it, times when he had been deliberately reckless. After that first mission, with the smell of blood and blackmail in the air, the bitter taste of treachery in his mouth and the blank, accusing faces a memory carved into his mind as if into imperishable stone; after that he had thrown himself into every battle. He had attacked every pirate and marauder with wild fury, earning a name for himself as a fierce protector of the small independent traders amongst whom's number he had once counted himself. But he had always stepped away from that final move, from leaving the vulnerable opening that would have seen him tumbling endlessly through space, a burnt, lifeless shell.  
  
Nil'Tanar stopped abruptly and Ryllaen ran into his back. The collision brought the telepath out of his brooding; he looked around curiously. What is it? he asked, ignoring the furious glare of the other.  
  
Muttering a curse under his breath, Nil'Tanar turned his gaze back to their surroundings. Night approaches. We should find shelter.  
  
The sun was low behind their backs, setting the hills into patterns of light and shadow. They had walked for most of the day, yet still seemed no closer to the dark haze they knew to be Mirkwood. For space-faring pilots who were used to traversing the wide empty distances between systems, the lack of progress was frustrating.  
  
Ryllaen shrugged; this hill seemed to him the same as any other. If you know a good place to go, be my guest.  
  
The Polaran growled, stung by his sardonic tone. If you prefer to sleep in the open, in clear view of every wild animal that might feel a little hungry, be _my_ guest.  
  
He shrugged again, but followed Nil'Tanar to a stand of boulders that thankfully rested beside a small spring. Ryllaen sat down carefully. He would not admit it, but he had been almost ready to collapse. He was tired; the pain in his head was growing.  
  
I don't suppose you have any food? he asked.  
  
Nil'Tanar only looked disgusted. You were the one in such a hurry to leave, he pointed out. I don't even have a knife, since you led us straight into that spiders' nest. Be thankful I found us some water.  
  
Speaking of which- Ryllaen sighed and leaned back against the boulder. Did you lose your blaster?  
  
Carry an energy weapon on a Manta? Nil'Tanar looked shocked at the very idea. Our ships are not the senseless hulks of metal to be found in your Federation, Vell-os. And we have better training than to rely on such clumsy weapons.  
  
No doubt, Ryllaen replied, too tired to find an appropriately sarcastic response. Water. It will keep us alive for a few days, I suppose. After that, not even a starving cunjo will want to gnaw on our bones.  
  
Eyes narrowed, Nil'Tanar twisted his head around and stared at him. That is an Auroran creature, he said softly. What does a Vell-os know about cunjos?  
  
Ryllaen met his suspicious gaze without expression, mentally cursing the slip. I could ask you the same, Polaran.  
  
The barbarians press our borders more than the Federation does. We of the Nil'kemorya have come to understand what holds significance in their culture, even rare and obscure predators. What does a Vell-os in service to the Federation military know about Aurorans?  
  
I've travelled. Ryllaen looked away, expression cold, and would not explain further, though Nil'Tanar's gaze did not leave him for a long time.  
  
Night came and the telepath fell into a deep sleep, but Nil'Tanar caught little rest. The howling of wolves rent the air, not so distant as he would have liked, and as his eyes strained to pierce the darkness, he fancied he saw the moving flicker of torches on a far hill.  
  
  
  
Nil'Tanar looked at the long shadows, then at Ryllaen. He was worried. Walking for days with no food and very little water had taken a toll on them both, and they were no closer to finding the end of these hills. The Vell-os stumbled as he walked, eyes glazed with exhaustion and a pain that Nil'Tanar could not fathom. He himself was rapidly becoming weaker, though he had training and greater natural endurance. Yet he was unwilling to stop when the sun eased below the line of the hills. Eyes had been watching them the last night, and he could not shake the feeling that they were being followed. There was no complaint from Ryllaen when Nil'Tanar kept walking. The young warrior frowned unconsciously, his unease deepening. If the Vell-os felt something...  
  
Ryllaen stopped suddenly and swung around to face the way they had come; he looked more alert and wary than he had in days. Standing beside him, Nil'Tanar was silent. A moment later he heard the faint crunch of stone beneath boots. Glancing at the Vell-os, Nil'Tanar knew from his expression that whatever occupied those boots was not friendly.  
  
I hope you have a plan for this, Ryllaen said quietly.  
  
Nil'Tanar shook his head, glad that the night sky was clear and a bright moon shone, though he would have wished for more than one. I'll take the orcs if you can handle the dogs.  
  
The Vell-os flashed a humourless smile. To save my life, certainly.  
  
They were surrounded; Nil'Tanar heard the evidence an instant after Ryllaen sensed the malevolent thoughts rising up like a choking wave. Standing back to back, they waited. Nil'Tanar crouched into combat stance, his bare hands as much a weapon as his knives had been, and Ryllaen stood tall, feet apart, arms straight down at his sides, eyes distant as he gathered the strength to weave in the coming fight.  
  


* * *

  
  
The company travelled swiftly and silently, heading arrow-straight to the point where Galind had seen the Men fall. A small band of Wood-elves clumped around their prince and the Rivendell Elves, while the remainder ranged out as scouts. Glorfindel and Elrohir watched them with interest; neither had dealt much with Mirkwood, and then only with the royal family. Their Silvan kin were an enigma, for they kept to themselves and prefered to remain unseen, even while their king entertained guests.  
  
Elrohir cried out and spurred his horse forward a few paces, even as the forward scouts came running back. Fire! Fire in the hills!  
  
The company gazed west. Flashes of light lit up the sky and patches of land, as if lightning struck up from the ground. It was at such a distance that the Elves could not see the source, though they strained their senses to the utmost.  
  
It is the Men we seek, Legolas concluded. They must be set upon by some band of orcs.  
  
The dark-haired son of Elrond's eyes glinted at the mention of the creatures. Then we must go to their aid.  
  
Legoals and Glorfindel exchanged glances; they knew that look too well, having seen it often in their twin friends wherever orcs were about. We will go ahead, Glorfindel said at last. Our steeds will carry us faster.  
  
We will follow, Legolas replied, nodding.  
  
The Rivendell Elves spurred their horses on and were soon lost in the night, leaving the Wood-elves to run as swiftly as their feet could carry them.  
  
  
  
The two Elves scanned the ground carefully. There were many tracks, both orc and wolf, and a few that belonged to neither. A great fight had been fought and blood left its stain on charred ground, yet no bodies could be seen. The orcs had carried off their own dead.  
  
They continued north, Elrohir said after a while.  
  
Glorfindel turned to gaze in that direction. He was not so skilled a tracker, and it took him a moment longer to find the signs amid the confusion. Why north? It seems that they were heading east, back to Mirkwood.  
  
Elrohir shrugged and returned to his horse. I think they had little choice in the matter. They were hard pressed in the night.  
  
We must hurry. The golden-haired Elflord scanned the battlefield one last time. The orcs will be upon them again tonight.  
  
The tracks were easy to follow, daubed with disturbing amounts of blood, and they knew that at least one of the Men was gravely injured. It did not take them long to catch up; spotting them in the distance several hours before sunset, they rode hard the rest of the way. Both Men turned at the sound of hooves pounding behind them, wary and watchful but too exhausted to run. The grey-cloaked warrior clutched a dark orcblade in one hand, lowered but ready to be used in an instant. The long-haired wizard simply stared at them, eyes growing wider as they neared. With a strangled cry he turned and ran, limping heavily.  
  
Glorfindel cried.   
  
He was greatly surprised when the Man obeyed. The Man turned, unwillingly it seemed, and Glorfindel saw that he was wholly terrified.  
  
I do not desire to harm you, Glorfindel said, voice low, soothing. Come, you have wounds and will not last the night against orcs. Do not be afraid. He brought Asfaloth to a halt a few paces from the grey-cloaked warrior.  
  
The long-haired Man shook his head wearily. You ask the impossible, he said at last, a tremor in his voice, and resignation also.   
  
But he suffered the Elves to approach, and flinched only once when Glorfindel tended his wounds.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** Elves and orcs belong to Tolkien. Polaris and Iusia's story belong to Ambrosia Software and ATMOS.  
  
All characters speak in their respective languages unless specifically stated otherwise. Ie, Elves speak Sindarin, Nil'Tanar speaks Polaran, and Ryllaen speaks Federation Basic.  
  


* * *

  
  
They had no rest that night. Orcs rose up with the dark and assaulted the crack in the cliff face that Elrohir had found to shelter the injured Men. The crack was not deep; there was enough space for both of them to lie down, if the Elves and horses stayed near the narrow entrance. Neither Ryllaen nor Nil'Tanar could ignore the danger beyond the rough stone walls, however, and despite their injuries remained ready to defend themselves should the orcs win past the Elves. But the Elves were seasoned warriors and did not falter. The aliens had little else to do but watch them in wonder.  
  
And wonder they did. The Elves were beautiful, fair, deadly. To Nil'Tanar, insensitive to all weave-sense but a mild and untrained empathy, they were glorious. Starlight glittered in their eyes and shone in their hair. Their expressions were fierce, their blades dark with blood. They moved faster than any he had seen except for some few Nil'Kemorya masters. He learned quickly their fighting styles, subtly different from each other, and though they were alien to his own, they were no less effective.  
  
Ryllaen could not take his eyes off Glorfindel. The panic of those first two meetings had given way to steadier emotions. There was fear, yes, deep and abiding. Underneath it lay a strong current of awe and, oddly, reverence. Nil'Tanar looked at him quizzically before studying the Elf once more. He could discern nothing unusual about the golden-haired Elf beyond what he sensed in all the Elves they had met so far. He resolved to ask the Vell-os about it when the opportunity arose.  
  
But it was not to be that night. The attacks were sporadic, with never enough time between for the party to rest. The orcs got behind the Elves only once, climbing down the cliff walls from above, and the fighting then had been quick and bloody. By dawn the stench was near unbearable.  
  
Elrohir leaned against the rock while he cleaned his blade. "They will not be back soon." There was a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes.   
  
Nodding, Glorfindel surveyed the littered ground. "We must leave this place now; the nearest shelter is some leagues away. I like not this unrest in the hills."  
  
Turning back to the Men, Elrohir swept a sharp gaze over them. Noting no serious wounds, he said, "Come. Alagos and Asfaloth will bear you."  
  
Nil'Tanar and Ryllaen exchanged glances. Staring at the great white horses, hooves matted with dark blood where each had used them to good effect against the orcs, the Polaran could not suppress a grimace of disgust. "You want us," he asked slowly, "to ride your beasts? The Vell-os can do what he wishes. I will not."  
  
"These are Elf-steeds and have long been friends of ours. They will not let you fall. Rest as you can upon their backs; we cannot stop today."  
  
"Then ride them yourselves," Ryllaen said. It was clear that he found the idea at least as distasteful as Nil'Tanar. "You have been fighting all night: you must be at least as tired as us."  
  
"_We_ are not injured, and we are not Men. It will take more than one night of orcs before we become weary," Elrohir replied. A hint of impatience tempered the urgency of his tone. "Ride. We have far to travel."  
  
The two Men did not move. "To travel on the back of an _animal_," Nil'Tanar muttered.   
  
"Says the Polaran. What was it I caught you in, then?" Ryllaen smirked when Nil'Tanar rounded on him with a furious glare.  
  
"Polaran ships are not animals," he hissed. "Better my Manta than a pathetic energy shield that relies on _you_."  
  
Ryllaen scowled and opened his mouth as if to issue a scathing reply, but Glorfindel chose that moment to intervene. "You will ride," he said, voice calm and authoritative. Ryllaen flinched. "The orcs were not without purpose. They will follow, and we must reach better shelter."  
  
Straightening, Nil'Tanar regarded him with some surprise. Though he knew at some level that the orcs must be intelligent - at least enough to forge weapons and armour - he had considered them barely more than beasts. "What purpose?"  
  
The Elves looked at each other for a long moment. "A dark hand moves them. We have caught the attention of Dol Guldur."  
  
But the name meant nothing to the Men, and they were not persuaded. A faint frown graced Glorfindel's expression. "You will ride," he said again. This time there was a distinct threat in the words, calm though they were.  
  
It was their memory of the Elves in battle and their own injuries that eventually convinced them. The horses waited patiently for them to settle, clumsy though they were and inconsiderate of knees digging into the horses' sides. Once the two Men had gained their seats, the party departed the crack in the cliff face. Stiff and uncomfortable upon the warm moving back, Nil'Tanar saw at once why the Elves had insisted that the Men ride. Glorfindel and Elrohir settled into a ground-eating lope that the young Polaran warrior would have been hard-pressed to maintain at the peak of his strength. As they ran light chatter and laughter flew from their lips, appearing not at all hindered by the need for breath. Nil'Tanar shook his head. "Iusia," he muttered.  
  
"And who is that?" Elrohir queried. "Many times I heard you speak that name in the night. What tale does it hold?"  
  
Startled, Nil'Tanar looked at the Elf and shook his head again. He had barely been able to hear himself speak over the clatter of the horses' hooves and the chiming of the silver bells on the bridles. "It's a long story," he replied.  
  
"It is a long road. Leagues fly when there is a tale in the air."  
  
Nil'Tanar glanced to the other horse - Elrohir's, he thought. The Vell-os was slumped upon its back, face hidden by the fall of long untamed hair. Nil'Tanar could see that every slight bump pained the exhausted Vell-os, who gripped the reins with white-knuckled hands even while barely conscious. The Polaran turned back to face the Elves running before them. He sighed. "Very well. Of all the Polarans, the Nil'Kemorya are charged with the protection of our people. We are warriors; we train for war all our lives. There are many threats to Polaris: pirates. Aurorans. The Federation." The last was said with a heated glance at the Vell-os, who did not appear to be listening. "Only once in our history were we forced to protect Polaris from Polarans.  
  
"Many centuries ago, a dispute arose between two castes over the administration of a system. Ownership goes to those with the most need and use for the land, yet both Ver'ash engineers and P'aedt scientists were equally qualified, and neither was willing to submit. For two decades they argued. The Tre'pira – the worker caste – adjudicated, but could not decide. In the end, they ruled that the Tre'pira would own the land until either Ver'ash or P'aedt could provide clear proof of their right. The conflicting castes could not accept this. They exiled all Tre'pira from the land. And then, the leaders of Ver'ash and P'aedt died, assassinated with their families. Both castes claimed Tre'piran guilt, though even now we can't be certain.  
  
"Polaris was split apart and engulfed in the first and only civil war we have ever known. Even the Kel'ariy fought amongst themselves, for each member of the ruling caste has their roots in one of the other castes. We, the Nil'kemorya, remained apart. It was not for us to take part in internal conflicts: we were concerned only with outside threats to the Polaris. But the time came when we were forced to act or witness our people destroy themselves. But no single caste was wholly at fault – we could not stop one without stopping the others. And so we chose to strike against them all, and took all Polaris as our enemy so that we might save some part of our people.  
  
"We are trained for war: the other castes were no match for us. We brought them to their knees and forced them to stop fighting. And then... we surrendered. We fight to protect Polaris, not to rule. Iusia was leader of the Nil'Kemorya in that time. For the actions he took to end the civil war, he condemned himself to exile from all that he loved and served. Ar'za Iusia was the place that caused the war, named for Iusia's sacrifice, and none claim it now."  
  
Nil'Tanar fell silent. From the day of the war's end, each successive leader of the warrior caste took the title of Iuso in honour of he who shamed himself for the good of his people. The Nil'kemorya patrolled that system and kept Iusia's final resting place untouched by any. Long after the man's death, the Nil'kemorya had sent a patrol down, and found the words that Iusia had placed into writing. All Nil'kemorya read them, and they never failed to touch the warriors' hearts. To the end of his days, Iusia had been haunted by the lives he had ended, though not one of those three million deaths had been unnecessary. The civil war had been long ago, yet still every Nil'kemorya felt the creeping unease, the nightmares that they too would one day be faced with killing their own people.  
  


* * *

  
The sun was low in the west before they came at last to a house at the foot of the mountains. A rough but sturdy wall surrounded the buildings and a garden, leaving well-tended fields protected only by a short fence. Glorfindel had barely touched the gate when a young woman emerged from the house, shouting welcome.  
  
"My lords!" she cried. The Elves laughed as they caught the running girl and swung her around in turn.  
  
"Elsa." Glorfindel set her down on her feet. "You have grown! Surely you could not have reached my knees when last I saw you."  
  
She wrinkled her nose. "It has been seven years, my lord. You promised you would come."  
  
"And here I am." He laughed again at her exclamation of delight.  
  
The young woman turned curious eyes to the riders. She was human, Nil'Tanar realized with surprise. Her features did not have the same cast as the Elves; she was stronger and did not draw the gaze with an almost frightening compulsion, though she was not without her own beauty to one who had not thought to find a human here.   
  
"I am Nil'Tanar," he said quietly in response to her unspoken query. He was far too uncomfortable atop the horse to bow, and so settled for smiling politely.   
  
Ryllaen said nothing, merely gazing through her. The Polaran wondered what he was picking out of her thoughts.   
  
"This," Nil'Tanar said with a grimace, for he felt suddenly the desire not to offend the human girl with ill manners, "is Ryllaen."   
  
Her eyes widened.  
  
"Elsa," Elrohir said. "May we speak with your father?"  
  
She nodded. "Yes, he's with the dogs. I'll tell him you've arrived. But go on inside. Mother will be glad to see you. And," she added, looking at both Nil'Tanar and Ryllaen, "she'll clean you up. Orcs, was it?" She nodded and turned away without waiting for them to reply, and the Elves grinned at her youthful self-assurance.  
  
The horses were stabled in one long building. Nil'Tanar and Ryllaen dismounted before one of the Elves thought it necessary to offer aid they were unwilling to accept. Pride – and rivalry, for neither was willing to admit pain before the other – kept them on their feet as they followed the Elves into the main complex. The woman who met them looked too much like Elsa not to be her mother, and she clucked over the four of them in a way that reminded Nil'Tanar very much of a Ver'ash doctor. In short order the aliens found themselves in a bathing room with two great half-barrels of heating water and a washcloth each. The barbarity of it gave them pause, but not for long: both were too sore and too eager to be clean to reflect on the sheer primitivity of this planet. Nil'Tanar was not used to waterbaths; looking at Ryllaen, he saw that the Vell-os was even less so. But it was all they had, and they made use of it.   
  
Layers of dirt, product of imprisonment and battle, were sloughed off. Flexing his muscles where he could and cleaning carefully around all the scrapes and cuts he had gained, Nil'Tanar regarded his newly acquired scars with disgust and resignation. Were he in Polaris, a Ver'ash would heal his wounds so well that no trace remained. Nil'kemorya far more senior than he who spent their lives on the borders had less to show for it. Nil'Tanar knew that some cultures, the Aurorans foremost among them, considered battlescars to be signs of stature. But the Aurorans were barbarians who made of their bodies a canvas upon which to tattoo the history of every battle they fought. It was a practice the Polarans considered repulsive. But what could not be helped, could not be helped. Nil'Tanar supposed he should be glad that he was not yet crippled or dead; he could still fight, if need be, and that meant he could still find a way off this planet. He held on to that thought tightly before setting it aside and concentrating on making sure his wounds would not get infected.   
  
A suppressed exclamation caused him to look aside. The Vell-os sat in a tub stained dark with blood and grime. Nil'Tanar could see that one long gash in his side had reopened. He shook his head.  
  
"Get out of there," he said. "You'll get it infected, and I doubt even your nanites can handle something like that."  
  
Ryllaen hissed, face drawn into a grimace. "I would if I could move at all."  
  
As gently as he could, Nil'Tanar pulled the Vell-os up. It was an effort, for his own muscles did not like the strain, and he could see that the Vell-os' body had taken as much trauma for one day as it would suffer. He used one drying cloth to staunch the bloodflow and ran a cursory gaze over Ryllaen until he was satisfied that no other wound had opened. Nil'Tanar stopped, and stared.  
  
The Vell-os had washed his hair. It hung in one sodden mass, pulled to the side and over one shoulder so it would not chafe against an ugly scratch on his back. It left his neck clear, and for the first time Nil'Tanar could clearly see the device attached there. It was an ugly-looking thing, smooth, rectangular, not much larger than his thumb. Wires penetrated into the Vell-os' skin, leading directly to his central nervous system. It glistened with the beads of water that had collected on it. The whole thing looked like a Ver'ash implant gone wrong, and the evil that it represented seemed to lend it a dark miasma.  
  
"So that's it," Nil'Tanar said quietly. "The device that keeps an entire race subjugated."  
  
Ryllaen flinched as if Nil'Tanar had hit him. His expression hardened. "Go do something useful and find us clean clothes," he snapped.  
  
Shaking his head, Nil'Tanar turned away. He tried to keep his pity to himself – a futile task against a Vell-os – and could not help but feel a little guilty when Ryllaen's scathing glare fell on him. Clothes had been set aside for them on a bench nearby, simple large tunics and trousers, held up by a strip of cured leather for a belt. Nil'Tanar put them on reluctantly. The cloth felt too light and fragile, too loose. It had none of the durability of his own clothing which was, to his dismay, the worse for wear. But it would do.   
  
The Vell-os looked oddly waiflike in the borrowed clothes that hung loosely around his tall frame. He did not have the build to fill them out, and Nil'Tanar noticed with concern that their time on this planet was not doing him any good. The Vell-os had not pulled the tunic on, and Nil'Tanar could see why: the clean clothing would not stay clean for long. He used another towel to replace the one soaked in blood.  
  
"Let's go," Nil'Tanar said briskly. "Glorfindel will look at that. He seems competent enough without the benefits of technology. The sooner you heal, the faster we can find a way off this rock." He noted the Vell-os' change of expression. "What is it?" he asked. "Why are you afraid of that one?"  
  
Ryllaen strode, stiffly and unsteadily, out of the bathing room.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer:** Elves and orcs belong to Tolkien. Polarans and Vell-os belong to Ambrosia Software and ATMOS.

All characters speak in their respective languages unless specifically stated otherwise. Ie, Elves speak Sindarin, Nil'Tanar speaks Polaran, and Ryllaen speaks Federation Basic. 

* * *

The dining hall was the largest room in the homestead. It had for its centrepiece a great oak table that could easily seat a dozen people; there were three around it now. Glorfindel sat on a low bench with his back against one tight-cut stone wall. His fair face was serious and intent. "They will come at nightfall."

The Man across the table was broad-shouldered and large, easily twice the Elf's build. He acknowledged the prediction without much surprise. "We will be ready. Been stirring trouble, my lords?"

Elrohir laughed. "If trouble means fighting when they would have us stand still for their blades, then yes. We have been stirring trouble."

"Cam, how many Men have you?" Glorfindel asked.

The farmer ran one hand through sun-lightened yellow hair. "Myself and my three brothers. Heledh broke his leg pulling a calf out of the well, but he still has use of his bow. Five of my nephews are able to fight and well practised; the others are yet too little. And my Elsa is no mean bowman. Do not fear, my lord. Orcs will not breach my walls tonight."

Though Cam seemed complacent, there was a light in his eyes that spoke of determination. The Elves saw it and were satisfied.

Glorfindel smiled. "Let it not be said that the Men of the Vale of Anduin have diminished with the passing of Ages! Your courage is heartening, my friend." The Elf-lord accepted the bowl of steaming stew that Elsa set before him, gifting her with a nod of appreciation. "And you will have us. We are not yet so weary that we will sleep while orcs prowl the night."

He stopped talking and both Elves looked beyond Cam. Ryllaen had entered the room, quite abrupt, half-clad and still damp from the much-needed bath. Yet, having entered with purpose and seeing the Elves, he stopped precipitously. Whatever anger he seemed to hold fled him, leaving him uncertain and ready to bolt back the way he had come.

Glorfindel rose. "You are bleeding," he commented, taking care to keep his tone neutral. "Come, allow me to bandage your wounds again."

There was a short silence. Then Elrohir's light voice seemed to breathe air into the room. "Though he is oft times fierce and too serious for his own wellbeing, you need not fear Glorfindel. Our Lord of the Golden Flower has slain a balrog, but he is not one himself."

Pressing his lips into a firm line, Ryllaen shook his head wearily. "Do what you will," he said at last. He approached the table and suffered the other to work on him, though the Elf was ill-pleased with the rigid tension that remained in his patient. Ryllaen kept his gaze blank and distant, staring – though he did not realize it – straight at the back of the girl working in the kitchen. When the ordeal was over he sat where he was directed and promptly slipped into a light doze.

Nil'Tanar was not far behind Ryllaen. He submitted to Glorfindel's ministrations with a good deal more grace, all the while switching his thoughtful gaze from Elf to Vell-os. Afterwards he offered a short bow. "I don't know what he sees in you," the young Nil'kemorya said with a jerk of his head in Ryllaen's direction, "but I am indebted to you for my life." He turned to the farmer who had observed the proceedings with discrete perception. "And for your hospitality, sir, I also give my thanks."

Ryllaen growled something indecipherable and untranslated under his breath.

Brow raised, Cam waved his hand in dismissal. "We are bound to help those we can," he said. "You owe me nothing."

More dishes of stew were brought out, and several more men came in. They were an incurious lot; they greeted the strangers courteously and briefly, paying somewhat more attention to the Elves, before digging into their meals. Word of an impending orc threat had spread and they did not linger before leaving to prepare for the night. Only the children seemed willing to approach. They pestered Nil'Tanar and Ryllaen with tactless questions fired so rapidly that neither had the opportunity to answer them even if the inclination was present, turning to the Elves when Cam reprimanded them. Ryllaen ignored them as best he could, eating at a steady pace that allowed for no appreciation of taste. Only the skittishness of his gaze when he might look at Glorfindel betrayed the direction of his brooding. Nil'Tanar, for his part, had a wistful half-smile on his face as he watched the children. They were, he thought, much like children anywhere, and he yearned suddenly for the clean lines of Tre'ar Helonis, the familiar taste of the air, the gravity that had formed his bones, the finite sky. More, he desired to see again the faces of his siblings.

He could not breathe. Rising, he spoke an apology and fled the buildings. Nil'Tanar leaned against a rough wooden fence, feeling the chill of the damp grey cloak seeping through his borrowed clothes. He inhaled the cooling air deeply, tasting earth, animals and unfamiliar plant spores on his tongue. Shuddering, he took another breath, and another.

"It is hard to be far from home."

Nil'Tanar looked up. Cam stood not far away, pulling herbal smoke out of a pipe. Beyond him, on the far end of the building, the statue-like silhouette of the Vell-os could be seen facing into the low sun. "It is hard," he agreed.

"You miss your family." His words were measured and objective, a personal observation that did not intrude upon privacy.

"Yes." Nil'Tanar sighed, watching the first bright lights appear, stars that had never before seemed so distant. "I know that should I even find my way back to my birthplace, they will not be there. They moved on long ago, as did I. But it would be enough simply to be home." He did not speak of his duties, the reports he had to make to his leaders, warnings of the Federation's newest strategy. He wondered if another Vell-os had been sent with the same objective, and if that one had been successful. Even if they were, no Nil'Kemorya captured in such a manner would be of high enough rank to provide any of the secrets the Federation no doubt wished to procure. Nil'Tanar felt some satisfaction knowing that.

"Your home is very far, I think," Cam said slowly. "You are strange, you and your companion. I have never met Men like you before." He puffed on the pipe. "Will you return?"

"If I can." The Polaran could not help the stabbing glance he sent towards the Vell-os. "I _will_ return home."

"You do not like him."

"He is an enemy of my people. I will fight him when I must, to protect my people." Nil'Tanar frowned. He did not like the tone he heard in his own voice and repeated it with determination.

"You are a warrior, then." Cam had not turned to look at Ryllaen, keeping his focus steady on the orange horizon. "It is well to protect one's home." He sighed. "I must go now and prepare. Stay inside the hall: I will not have any guest injured while under my hospitality."

Nil'Tanar turned in surprise. "You produce food. You are a _worker_," he stated.

Pausing, Cam looked back quizzically. "Yes."

"And you will fight?" At the Man's affirmation, Nil'Tanar stood still a moment, confused. It was illogical, he knew, but he had expected differently. Perhaps it was the memories of home and his siblings, perhaps it was being among humans again where he had not expected them; whatever the case, he felt tired, alien, surrounded by a culture that was not his. "It is not so with us," he muttered at last. "Tre'pira are not Nil'kemorya."

"Your land must be both far and very great," Cam replied. "Here, there are not enough to do but one thing; we must share the tasks equally. I do not love the sword and bow, but I am no stranger to their use."

He was gone. Nil'Tanar heard his raised voice as he picked up one of his nephews, warm beneath the laughter and song of the Elves and the chatter of the children. The Polaran warrior did not move, not even when he heard the approach of the Vell-os. Nil'Tanar did not want company; he wanted to be alone. He did not want to face the man who was his only link to the stars. The time would come, if ever they got off this planet, for him to fight. He foresaw only two possibilities: his own capture and eventual death at the hands of the Federation's Bureau, or killing the Vell-os. Because he knew this and no longer accepted the inevitability of it, Nil'Tanar stayed where he was. The Vell-os came to stand beside him.

They remained thus, silent, as the occupants of the homestead went to and fro around them, preparing for the fight. Nil'Tanar stirred as he tracked Ryllaen's gaze. The young woman, first human they had met on this planet, worked near the wall, arms full of arrow bundles.

"I can tell you of the most beautiful woman I have ever met," Ryllaen said in answer to his silent observation. "She will be more than happy to take everything you are, and more, if it will further her ambitions." His voice was bitter with things left unspoken.

Looking at Elsa, Nil'Tanar saw only a young woman, too bright, too full of life, to hold the corruption the Vell-os spoke of.

"No, not her." Ryllaen was distant, almost fey. "I have seen so many like her – I was like her once. They – those people – had potential." He turned to face Nil'Tanar, and the Polaran stepped back. "Do you believe there is such a thing as justice?"

Nil'Tanar resisted the urge to step back again. He swallowed. There was that in the Vell-os' expression: it was terrible. "Yes," he replied. "And I hope you find it."

Ryllaen laughed. The sound was harsh and broken. "Then I am damned." He looked into the gathering darkness. The sky was muted shades of ochre and deepening blue. "_He_ said, did he not, that the orcs had a purpose?"

The Polaran didn't answer. He was growing anxious. The Vell-os was acting strangely – stranger than usual – and he watched warily.

"There is something to the south," Ryllaen continued. His expression grew blank as he focussed all his attention in that direction.

It seemed to Nil'Tanar that he stood like that for a long time, perfect in stillness. The singing stopped, but he was only aware of it as a part of the background environment. For now, he could not look away from the Vell-os. The foreboding he felt had its source there, and he did not like it. Neither did he understand it, until he saw the Vell-os jerk suddenly. Ryllaen did not move again, but this motionlessness was different: no longer seeking, he was struggling. It was not a kind struggle, or an easy one. His expression was transformed with pain.

There came a shout. Glorfindel flew past Nil'Tanar before the Polaran even noticed his presence and tackled Ryllaen to the ground.

The golden-haired Elf had never looked so angry. "Foolish Man!" he cried. "Do not seek out the Necromancer!"

Ryllaen blinked. His trance broken by the Elf and senses broken free by the abrupt assault, he gasped for breath. Then he rolled over and retched until his stomach emptied of its contents. "I... don't think... I'll be doing that again," he said when he had recovered a little.

Watching with fascination and not a little concern, Nil'Tanar said, "What is it?"

"The Necromancer of Dol Guldur," Glorfindel replied. Even in the gloaming as the sun lowered beneath the hills, Nil'Tanar could see him with absolute clarity. "We do not know what He is or where He came from, but He is evil."

"Corruption." Ryllaen shuddered. "I have never felt anything like it before." He accepted the flask of water Glorfindel gave him with shaky hands, gulping its contents down to wash out the acrid taste of bile. There was a lingering trace of horror in his eyes. "It is like... like entering Telluer or Llysla."

Nil'Tanar's scalp tingled. He did not know those systems, but they were Vell-os names, and all the Vell-os worlds had long since been destroyed.

"Do not do that again," Glorfindel commanded. "Now go, prepare yourselves. Night has fallen and we are not long from battle." He was gone, a shining figure striding into the building so recently vacated. 

* * *

The attack started nearly two hours later. The first warning they had was Ryllaen's sudden restlessness. Upsetting his bench as he rose from the table, he took up a position in the centre of the courtyard, standing as he often did. The enjoinings of Cam and his brothers did not make him return to the relative safety of the buildings, and they gave up in favour of watching the walls. Nil'Tanar joined him. Alien or not, he had resolved hours ago that he would not sit by the wayside if he could be of aid – and would not let his only means of transport home die – though he had originally intended to watch for the orcs that the others might miss.

The second warning came from the dogs. Whining, barking, they set up a clamour of sound, whipped into a frenzy of agitation as they circled behind the walls. The defenders could not fail to miss the answering howl from outside. Cam was grim as he shifted his grip on his sword.

The third warning was the last. A rapid rising thunder of bootsteps, a slight cessation of sound, and the first orcs leaped onto the walls and into the torchlight. The quick shooting of Elsa, Heledh and the Elves dispatched them but could not get them all. There were more than enough to reach the ready blades of Cam and his family. These were not the goblin tribes of the Misty Mountains that the family of Men was used to; these were a larger species, stronger, less canny and more determined. The aid of the battle-sworn Elves counted for much, yet the defenders found themselves hard-pressed to keep the wide stretches of wall clear.

Shouts arose from the southern flank. Elsa came running into the semi-shelter of the buildings to leap up onto a wagon and release arrows in quick succession as a cover for the retreat of her cousin. The boy – perhaps an adult by the standards of his people, yet neither Nil'Tanar nor Ryllaen could think of him as such – was bleeding from an arm that hung limp against his left side. He turned as soon as he reached a defensible position to face the orcs that clambered through the breach. The set of his stance was as determined as any Navy captain or Nil'kemorya either had seen. Nil'Tanar hesitated. He did not want to leave the Vell-os unprotected; neither could he stand by while orcs converged on the injured boy. Following through with his second instinct, Nil'Tanar threw a borrowed dagger. The warg he hit snarled as it turned on him, distracted from the boy it had been stalking. Wolf and man met in the middle of the courtyard at bone-crushing speed. There was a curious strangled howl, and Nil'Tanar emerged from the scuffle. He spun to face the orcs now rushing towards him, fully joining the battle.

The press of orcs at the breach was great; none of the other defenders could come to them, having enough to do by preventing further breaches. At first Nil'Tanar tried to keep the orcs away from the main building in which the children were sheltering, protected by their mothers who were standing just inside the entrances with long knives in hand. He realised very soon, however, that the most defenseless of the humans were simply temptations that a few orcs succumbed to. The rest seemed determined to mob Nil'Tanar and the Vell-os he was careful to keep behind him. But, as he had noted before, they were far more primitive than the Elves or even the humans, and their fighting also reflected this. The greatest danger they presented was sheer force of numbers. Knowing this, he adjusted his own fighting to compensate.

The young Nil'kemorya held his ground until a startled cry caused him to risk a glance away from his most immediate opponents. A group of orcs had crept up behind Elsa, their stealthy movements masked by her concentration as she kept the ranks of orcs around her cousin thin. Only the flash of movement at the edges of her vision as they raised their blades made her duck and roll to the side. But the wagon did not allow her space, and she had fallen off. She dashed away, reaching the partial shelter of the main building's walls with several long cuts to mark her escape. Many of the orcs were willing to be distracted by the girl, it seemed. Elsa carried a long knife, but she wielded it awkwardly, and Nil'Tanar guessed that her wrist was broken. He shouted, but though he and the boy fought with renewed vigour, they could not break free to help her.

The sharp white lines of energy crackled across the courtyard, illuminating it with blinding intensity and filling the air with the sharp tang of ozone. The orcs pressing in on Elsa drew back, half of them incinerated by that brief twist in the weaves. Ryllaen appeared at her side, slipping past the orcs in their confusion. He looked at Nil'Tanar and opened his mouth as if he might speak. His indecision firmed into resolve.

Sight of Ryllaen, Elsa and the main building was obstructed. A shimmering blue dome encased them in a Vell-os energy shield that was a barrier more effective than anything this planet could produce. The orcs stopped in surprise; cries echoed from the far walls. Nil'Tanar's smile was fierce and victorious, though he was not entirely sure why he was so elated – the Vell-os had left him outside and vulnerable to the orcs that now assaulted him with the ferocity that he had only met before in the barbaric Aurorans. Thwarted, afraid and made furious by fear, the orcs advanced with such rage that Nil'Tanar was forced to give ground. He had lost his borrowed blade somewhere on the ground, irretrievable under the dusty boots of orcs. He wished for that blade now as he pushed his body to its limits in desperate defence.

More cries arose from the walls, but Nil'Tanar had no attention left to decipher them. It was all he could do to stay on his feet as he was slowly and inevitably forced back against the stable walls. Arrows flew across the courtyard: Glorfindel and Elrohir, he thought. The brief distraction was costly. He grimaced in pain and kicked away the warg snarling at his feet. The double _thwack_ of two objects hitting the ground not far to his left and the brief vision of two blades sticking upright in the dirt led Nil'Tanar to twist away from his closest opponent and roll across the ground.

He gained his feet with knives in hand and was very nearly killed as shock made him pause. He knew these knives! Without more than a glimpse, he knew these blades were his own that were lost to captivity; the weight, the molded hilts, the vibrations as he blocked orc blow and sliced through wolf hide were as familiar to him as the cloak on his back. Nil'Tanar glanced up as a voice he did not recognize called out to him.

"Your weapons!" Eiliant cried. The Mirkwood Elf was cutting his way towards the Polaran with a long knife darkened by orc blood. "May you find them more willing to aid you than my own!"

Nil'Tanar did not have the breath to respond, so busy was he with the knives that he held. The two made short work of the orcs between them; Nil'Tanar looked around to find that the rest had been driven off by the arrival of the Mirkwood party. Glorfindel and Elrohir were speaking with Legolas on the far side of the courtyard as the farmers hesitantly approached the blue dome keeping them apart from their families.

The dome dissipated; through its growing transparency, Nil'Tanar saw Ryllaen, rigid with the strain of maintaining the tight energy weaves, collapse. As he fell, so too did the remnants of the shield. Elsa emerged from the building, wrist bound, and rushed to the fallen Vell-os' side. Nil'Tanar joined her there. He frowned as he felt the Vell-os' pulse: it was weak and slow. Glorfindel knelt by his side, touched Ryllaen on the forehead, and gazed at Nil'Tanar with serious eyes.

The Polaran stared back at the Elf, dismay slowly growing as he realized that he could not understand a single word spoken around him.


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer:** Elves and Rivendell belong to Tolkien. Polarans and Vell-os belong to Ambrosia Software and ATMOS.

All characters speak in their respective languages unless specifically stated otherwise. Ie, Elves speak Sindarin, Nil'Tanar speaks Polaran, and Ryllaen speaks Federation Basic.

* * *

Had he thought himself isolated, lost in an alien culture on an alien world? It was nothing compared to what he felt now. Nil'Tanar forgot about his own wounds as he carried Ryllaen into the hall.

The Vell-os could not die now. He _could not._

But there were no mortal wounds that Nil'Tanar could see, no blood loss serious enough to merit his collapse. There was nothing the young warrior could bind and set with a rough field dressing. The malady had little to do with the Vell-os' body, and everything to do with his mind. Nil'Tanar understood, then, and was angry.

Ryllaen had chosen to involve himself in the battle. He had woven a shield that not only protected himself, but also encompassed the entire hall and all the humans within who could not protect themselves. From poorly remembered classes, Nil'Tanar knew that such a shield was difficult to create, more so than even the largest of Vell-os ships. Damaged as he was, Ryllaen should not have been able to weave it, let alone hold it for as long as he did. Nil'Tanar had seen the Vell-os, had seen the pain he was in, and knew that the risk had not been undertaken lightly.

His glare fell upon Elsa. She faltered a moment at the force of his fury as she helped her cousin, though it was not directed at her.

Glorfindel touched his shoulder. He looked up, and away. Try as he might, Nil'Tanar could not meet that stern gaze; it was bright and clear, piercing. Nil'Tanar felt oddly chastened. When he lifted Ryllaen's inert body onto the table, his hands were steadier.

There was nothing he could do. Even if he knew how to help the Vell-os – and he angrily admitted to himself that he was no Ver'ash and no expert on the complex interconnections between Vell-os physiology and telepathy – he found before him a communications barrier that he had forgotten existed. The syllables that swirled around him were incomprehensible, alien. Nil'Tanar felt helpless and lost, more so than when they had first crashed on this planet. It was not a sensation he enjoyed.

But the activities of the humans and Elves were not so strange as they set about repairing the damage of the orc attack. Nil'Tanar stood. He could not help with the wounded, and he could not bear to sit by the Vell-os and do nothing. So he went out into the torch-lit courtyard and, the pain of his wounds receding before the need to do something, _anything_, to take his mind off this situation, joined the few Elves piling orc and wolf carcasses in a heap. It was grim work. Nil'Tanar performed his chosen task with mouth set in a hard line to rein in his repulsion. He yearned for the wide reaches of space, where warriors were destroyed more often than not with the ships they flew and battle seemed cleaner. Even those expeditions that took the Nil'kemorya to planet surface did not end like this, stepping on earth turned to a quagmire of mud with blood, labouring under the smoky light of an open flame to burn the vestiges of a primitive fight.

There were others among the dead, five pale slender bodies under spills of silken hair. Nil'Tanar veered away from the fallen Elves, uncertain what their culture demanded and preferring to leave them to their own. He was exhausted and afraid; he drove away panic by working thus until the homestead was cleared and the mist fled before morning's heat. He might have continued had not Glorfindel found him and took him into the hall, and he gave in to exhaustion at last.

* * *

Cam studied the body sprawled over his dining table. A bandage was wrapped around his head, but the farmer's gaze was still sharp and purposeful. "Strange Men," he muttered. "I am not certain they are Men at all. There's nothing here I can fix."

Legolas agreed with the assessment, though he did not say so. "Lord Glorfindel?"

The Elf-lord had a hand over Ryllaen's head and another over his heart. What his green eyes saw the others could not see, but he drew back suddenly, an expression of pain and shock on his fair face. "It is his _fëa_. Ai, I should have looked earlier." He met the others' puzzlement with an explanation that left the mortal farmer none the wiser. "He is torn asunder, and not all the damage is new, though this wound is. He will not wake again unless his _fëa _can be mended."

The Woodland prince looked at him thoughtfully. That Glorfindel had not tried a healing told him much, and he could think of very few with power to match the former Gondolindrim. "You mean to make for Imladris," he concluded.

"There is some binding on the _fëa _that both wounds and keeps alive. I fear to do too much lest I cause further damage." Glorfindel sighed. "Elrond is better skilled at healing than I."

"And the other?" Cam gestured at the Man who slept wrapped in the folds of a thoroughly bedraggled cloak.

"He will not allow himself to be separated from his companion, I think," Legolas replied. "Take them both, Lord Glorfindel, and I will send with you two of my warriors." He smiled briefly when the other Elf raised a brow. "I cannot continue with this journey. The orcs ran east. I will not allow them to reach the safety of Dol Guldur."

He did not add that Dol Guldur lay within the boundaries of what once had been Greenwood the Great, and though the Elven inhabitants of that forest gave ground to the darkness, they did so with much reluctance and at great cost to the Necromancer's minions. For a moment Glorfindel saw the pride and stubborn will that was the hallmark of Oropher's line shine through his grandson. It was these traits that had led Oropher to his doom and enabled his son Thranduil to hold out for so long against the shadow that plagued his realm; Glorfindel knew that they would drive this latest scion in his turn. Then Legolas grinned.

"Take them both," he continued. "You will need them, for when the one Man is healed and the other assured of his safety, it will take all your diligence and strength to keep them from injuring each other." Legolas left them to speak with Elrohir and his scouts, returned after making sure no orc remained within easy reach of the homestead.

Allowing himself a light smile at the youthful prince's words – _when_ and not _if_ – Glorfindel acknowledged the truth of the parting shot. The promise of violence hovered between the two strange Men, and he was not so certain they could keep it in check before the goal behind the uneasy alliance was achieved. Yet he had more immediate concerns than that, and began organising the necessary details with Cam.

* * *

The journey from the Vale of Anduin through the High Pass to Rivendell was fast-paced, though it did not have the urgency that pursuit imposed. Nil'Tanar rode in the horse-pulled cart beside Ryllaen, the two Rivendell Elves rode in front, and those of Mirkwood alternated between guiding the cart and walking alongside it. Nil'Tanar found himself with little to do but think and worry; he had attempted some conversation and found the scant Sindarin he had gleaned to be severely lacking, though he discovered that the other two were named Eiliant and Galind.

The Mirkwood Elves did not talk as much as Glorfindel and Elrohir. Nil'Tanar wondered at their reticence, and at length decided that Elrohir simply spoke more than enough for the rest. But they laughed and sang, and if the songs of the two pairs were subtly different to his ears, they were equally compelling. Sometimes Nil'Tanar could allow himself to smile and enjoy the strange music; other times he was annoyed by their cheerfulness. He knew that it stemmed from frustration and suppressed it as much as he could, though he was not entirely successful. The Elves were inexplicable to him; he had seen them serious and light-hearted by turns, most often the latter, the emotions often flowing into the other faster than he could blink. What heralded the appropriateness of one over the other, he could not establish. At times they were, to put it kindly, _silly_. Never before had Nil'Tanar met full-grown warriors who could and would act like children. Well-behaved children, yet still children.

Attempting to place aside this growing perception, Nil'Tanar concentrated on other matters. His inability to speak with them was of immediate concern – he had not realised just how much he had relied on the Vell-os. He struggled to learn, though language had never been his skill, and was surprised to find that the Elves understood some common and rudimentary Polaran words. Or rather, he acknowledged with a wry grin, they understood those words thathe often used. But they were not many, for he had not been overly talkative and now regretted the lost chance to increase the word base.

And so he had very little idea where they were going or what the Elves intended to do once they reached their destination. _At least_, he thought, _there is nothing attacking us now_. The journey was uneventful, and for that he was grateful.

The unconscious Vell-os was a never-ending source of concern. Glorfindel tended him as best he could, somehow managing to make him swallow at least enough water and _lembas_ to stay alive. Nil'Tanar watched these ministrations closely, almost obsessive as he guarded Ryllaen from every palpable and likely harm. Had he been less practical and more vocal, he would have cursed the Vell-os for their prolonged stay on this planet.

_This is one report Iuso will never believe_, he thought tiredly, though any Mu'hari inquisitor that followed the report would find no lie when his mind was searched. A lack of sanity, perhaps. He refused to consider the possibility that he would never make the report. And to make sure that possibility never became certainty, he kept watch over the Vell-os. The Elves appeared to recognise what he was doing, for none save Glorfindel tried to offer unwanted aid.

A day came when Elrohir shouted and galloped ahead of the party. Nil'Tanar watched this with puzzlement, understanding only when they passed over a crest and he caught sight of the buildings nestled in a steep valley.

"Imladris," Eiliant told him, smiling, and Nil'Tanar was relieved and a little apprehensive, for this appeared to be the end of their journey.

He was correct; by the time they reached the first buildings a small group of Elves was waiting with a stretcher. One of them, greeted by bows from the Mirkwood Elves and a cheery wave from Glorfindel, approached the cart. He looked too much like Elrohir to be anything but a close relative; Nil'Tanar watched him closely.

The Elf frowned as he rested a hand on Ryllaen's forehead in a gesture similar to the one Glorfindel had used. His expression was troubled as he exchanged words with the golden-haired Elf who came to stand by his side. The newcomer gently turned Ryllaen's head to the side and brushed away long strands of hair to reveal the device at the back of his neck. He drew back in surprise, then reached out again to touch the gleaming surface.

Nil'Tanar was alarmed. His hand shot out to grip the other's wrist. "Don't!" he said fiercely.

The Elf met Nil'Tanar's gaze for the first time. Taken aback by the strength in the clear grey eyes and a sense of age that did not fit with the youthful, kindly face, Nil'Tanar released the Elf with just as little thought as he had seized him. But he did not relent. The Elf nodded at him gravely, acknowledging something he appeared to see in Nil'Tanar, and spoke rapid words to the stretcher-bearers. Nil'Tanar followed them as they lifted Ryllaen and carried him into the building.

* * *

Elrond studied the Man as they walked, marking his anxiety and the suspicious gaze that alternated between watching the stretcher-bearers and sweeping the halls. "I see you have much still to report," he said to Elrohir.

"There was not enough time." Elrond's son flashed a reassuring smile when the Man glanced at him. Then he continued, "I do not understand this illness. Lord Glorfindel can explain better than I."

"It is as you saw, my lord," Glorfindel said. "The bonds extend from that object, though I know not how this was achieved, for I sense no inherent power in it. He cannot be healed while it is there." He hesitated. "Yet I do not know what effect that will have, and so I have done nothing. Nil'Tanar seems adamant."

Elrond saw the Man's gaze flicker back at the sound of his name. "He is protective."

"Yes." Glorfindel frowned.

"Does he wish the other to remain bound?"

"That is something we must ask him."

They waited until they had reached the House of Healing and Ryllaen had been gently set on a bed. All the stretcher-bearers departed save one, who offered a bow and a bright smile.

"Allow me to offer my services, Lord Elrond. I hear you have need of a translator."

"Gildor Inglorion. Your aid is, as always, appreciated." Elrond could not help but smile at the Exile who had appeared with some members of his Company a week past. He did not believe it to be coincidence. What coincidence could there be when an Elf of the House of Finrod, possessed of that House's ability to learn languages with ease, came to his door when a language never heard needed learning?

The Lord of Rivendell approached the prone Vell-os, conscious of the anxious Nil'Tanar whose hands hovered by his knife hilts, ready to draw them in an instant. He was not concerned, for each of the four Elves in the room were accomplished warriors in their own right, but he moved slowly to calm the Man. Elrond ran fingers lightly over Ryllaen's neck, circumscribing the area where metal that was like mithril but near-black and slippery met skin. He was disturbed to find that the wires were fused into skin. They ran deep, to what end he did not know.

Nil'Tanar moved restlessly.

Elrohir placed a gentle restraining hand on the Polaran's shoulder. Grey eyes caught and held the other's gaze. Tipping his head to the side, Elrohir said, "Ver'ash. Elrond, Ver'ash."

The Polaran stared at him. Elrohir's assurance that the other was a healer seemed to remove some of Nil'Tanar's anxiety. But not his resistance; he gestured at Ryllaen and shook his head repeatedly. The words he spoke were short, full of rough certainty.

"What purpose?" Elrohir asked, speaking the words in the Polaran tongue and hoping they were not too far out of context.

Apparently Nil'Tanar understood his meaning well enough, and though his expression showed that he thought it hopeless, he pointed at Ryllaen and tried to explain his reasoning with gestures that became increasingly complicated and frustrated. The sound of his language was exotic and not without music of its own; Elrohir caught a few words he thought he recognised, lost in the rapid flow of words.

He was not the only one listening closely. Gildor, eyes alight with intense concentration, followed every sound. He touched Nil'Tanar's mind to find the word-images that always accompanied anything spoken; it was thus, with the ability to uncover the meanings of such images and an understanding of the structures of language, that his kinsman had been the first to learn the tongues of Men and Dwarves upon reaching the shores of Arda.

Nil'Tanar stopped speaking mid-phrase as he whirled to face Gildor, brushing away the restraining hand on his shoulder as he did. The Elf felt the other's surprise, and wondered that the Man had been able to sense his light touch at all. After a moment Nil'Tanar renewed his admonishments with greater fervour. The word-images were clearer as they came thick and fast, and Gildor knew that Nil'Tanar was trying, clumsy though he was, to project his meaning.

At last Gildor broke eye contact. "I am not certain of all his words," he told the others. "Much of what he says is strange to me. But he tells me that his companion will die if the device is removed."

"What is its intent?" Elrond asked. He had not turned from his inspection of Ryllaen throughout the conversation.

Gildor asked and listened to the response. He stiffened, eyes flashing with shock. "Slavery," he said. "It binds and controls the _fëa_." His tone must have been accusatory, for Nil'Tanar spoke again. The Elf's brow knit as he tried to sort and understand the words. "He speaks of a war between two peoples. The older, more powerful people lost to the younger, more numerous second people. This device is the means by which the conquerors control the power of the others. He says that he belongs to a third people who took no part in the war."

"These two are enemies," Elrohir interjected. "I have seen enough to know that. And slavery is an evil that we cannot let pass unchallenged."

Gildor relayed the words, though Nil'Tanar was already shaking his head as if he had known what the response would be. "The third people wars with the second," Gildor said after extensive gestures and words on the part of the Polaran. "They cannot trust the first, for they are bound to the second. He says–"the Elf frowned in confusion before continuing, "–he says that his people work to free the first, but that they have not been able to do so without killing those they save. The device is bound to the health of the body. He is adamant that the device cannot be removed."

Straightening, Elrond turned to look at Nil'Tanar. He seemed weary, but his eyes were bright as always when there was healing to be done. "Tell him that he need not fear for now. I have healed what I can without removing the device and his companion will likely wake within a few days." Elrond watched as the youthful warrior relaxed a little. "Elrohir, please show our guest to a place where he may rest."

After his son had, by dint of gestures and reassuring smiles, coaxed the Polaran out of the room, Elrond offered Gildor water. "You are troubled."

"Aye." The Exile drank, nodding his gratitude. "He spoke of things I do not understand. He told of how the device will kill, but his words were strange and his thoughts more so. I see stars in his mind, Elrond, vast lands separated by regions empty of all things, distances farther than one can walk through all the Ages; he speaks of the different peoples that warred, and I see Men who are wholly unlike the Atani, more numerous than all the Elves and Men that were ever born. I know not from whence came this Man, nor do I believe any but Manwë Súlimo may fathom it. Did you see it so in the other?"

Elrond sighed as he looked at Ryllaen. "There was not so much to see; there are barriers and dark places in his mind that I hesitate to breach, and he himself has gone deep beyond my reach."

"Yet when he speaks there is much of what you say in his words," Glorfindel said. "Not always, for I think he cloaks it so that we may hear his thoughts without confusion. But it is there."

"Lord Elrond, what of the device? Think you that it may be removed?" Gildor stared at it with a distaste matched by them all.

"Not without danger. Yet in the end we may have little choice. His _fëa_ will not survive its bindings much longer."

Elrohir returned, less the Man, and the four deliberated over the patient until the hour came when other business needed tending.

* * *

****

****

**Remarks:**

Gildor and Finrod: valarguild[dot]org[slash]varda[slash]Tolkien[slash]encyc[slash]elves[dot]html

_fëa_ - spirit

Atani - Second People (the race of Men)

Manwë Súlimo - Lord of the Breath of Arda (Valar)


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer:** Elves and Rivendell belong to Tolkien. Polarans and Vell-os belong to Ambrosia Software and ATMOS.

All characters speak in their respective languages unless specifically stated otherwise. Ie, Elves speak Sindarin, Nil'Tanar speaks Polaran, and Ryllaen speaks Federation Basic.

* * *

Sunlight bathed the bed, warm, gentle, golden. Ryllaen stirred, moving a little against the sheets. Momentarily content, he kept his eyes closed, savouring the peace that permeated summer-thick air. He could not remember the last time he had woken thus, or the last time his sleep had been so easy and painless, free of bitter memory and ghosts.

Not since he had first entered into service to the Bureau.

Ryllaen's eyes shot open; he rolled off the bed and onto his feet, ignoring the sheets that now lay in a twisted heap on the floor. The pain in his mind returned full force. He gasped and let out a pained whimper as his mind tore anew. Ryllaen staggered, grabbing the wall for support when his body's injuries protested at the sudden motion.

_Capture a Polaran. Bring them immediately to me_.

His mission. Ryllaen did not know where he was, did not know how much time had passed or what had happened. _What happened?_ He couldn't remember. The last thing he remembered – the only thing he remembered – was receiving the mission. His head was throbbing; it was hard to think, hard to know how to act. He only knew that he had to complete his mission.

_Capture a Polaran_.

Grasping for concentration, walling off the pain for the brief moment necessary, Ryllaen tried to form a Dart. The weaves resisted him. Surprised, Ryllaen lost his focus, and reached for it again. The weaves were soft, gentle like summer-warmed air, and yet a solid force. He experimented with a hard thrust against the featureless barrier, ignoring the fresh pain. The barrier pushed back, yielding not at all. Ryllaen's eyes widened; he had found the signature twists of the weaves. The barrier was another telepath, a powerful one, blanketing his mind. He was a prisoner here.

Where?

He didn't know. Reaching for memory, he found only the familiar faces of his ghosts. Accusing, all of them, betrayed. He fled memory. His head _hurt_. A prisoner.

_Resist all capture. Evade and escape_.

Standing orders.

The door opened. Someone entered.

_Use whatever means_.

* * *

The scream of absolute fury rolled through the healing rooms. Nil'Tanar jumped up. After the shock had passed, he remembered to relax out of the defensive stance and realised who it was the voice belonged to. He was relieved; after nearly four days of inactivity while Elrond worked on the Vell-os' mind, Ryllaen had at last woken. Then Nil'Tanar felt fear for the person at whom the Vell-os' anger was aimed. Pulling the door open, Nil'Tanar sprinted past the startled Elf that stood guard outside. His cloak flapped around his knees in tatters, shorter than regulation demanded; he had resisted all attempts by the Elves to replace it. Haste led him to Ryllaen's room just behind Elrond.

The Vell-os stood rigidly beside the bed, eyes blazing. Energy crackled around him as a tangible and lethal force barely leashed. Several Elves ranged in front of him, keeping a wary distance and interposing themselves between the danger and their lord. Two were writhing on the ground, their bodies wracked by convulsions. Nil'Tanar was amazed that they still lived; he let it pass as he concentrated on Ryllaen. The Vell-os was irrational and wild. He did not appear to recognise or even truly see any of them, not even the Polaran. Blinded by pain, the Vell-os was responding purely to training.

Gildor approached the Vell-os, speaking calming words as he strove to make eye contact. Nil'Tanar had not seen the Elf appear and cursed himself for inattention when he could least afford it. He raised his voice in warning and reached for Gildor, but he was too late. Feeling the light intrusion into his mind, the Vell-os rejected it forcefully. Gildor was thrown against the far wall. The collision was clearly audible, as was the sound of bone snapping. The Elf was senseless when he hit the floor.

_release me_

The demand was flung out with raw power. Nil'Tanar winced as it pounded through his head. The Lord of Rivendell spoke. Strength radiated from him, golden and warm like summer's sun over Ar'za Iusia. His words were to no avail; whatever he was saying seemed to have the opposite effect to what Elrond intended. Ryllaen paled with anger and the energy around him condensed as he gathered the weaves. All his concentration focussed on Elrond.

_release me **now**_

There was no more time. So thick were the weaves roiling through the room, it almost hurt to breathe. Nil'Tanar glimpsed Glorfindel's arrival, a dark-haired Elf at his side, barely registering that a hard white light shone from Glorfindel. He didn't want to know what would happen when the golden-haired Elf tried to restrain the Vell-os. Either way the clash went, it would be disastrous. As strong as the Elves were – and Nil'Tanar had no doubt now that they were very strong – they were no match for a Vell-os. There was only one thing Nil'Tanar could think of to keep the Vell-os from killing everyone in the room and levelling the city, only one thing the Vell-os might listen to. The idea was utterly ludicrous and unconscionably dangerous, but Nil'Tanar couldn't let himself reconsider.

"Shield me. Bind my _fëa_," he hissed at Glorfindel. The Sindarin words were clumsy on his tongue and, he was sure, inaccurate. He could only hope that Glorfindel understood, else he would feel those burning weaves cascade through his body.

Nil'Tanar stepped in front of the Elves.

"Vell-os!" he said. He made of his voice a thing of authority, injecting into it all the arrogance and command that he could muster. "You will stand down."

Ryllaen ignored him.

He had only seconds before Ryllaen acted with devastating force. Raising his voice, Nil'Tanar tried again. "You will obey me, Vell-os. I am Bureau. I order you to _stand down_."

The effect on Ryllaen was astonishing. He jerked his head around and stared at Nil'Tanar; the muscles of his neck corded with tension. His expression twisted into something unreadable as the last trace of colour fled his face. "You are Polaran," he rebuffed. His voice held a trace of doubt.

"Field operant," Nil'Tanar snapped. "Stand down, Vell-os." He heard a quick whisper of Sindarin behind him, and in his peripheral vision saw Glorfindel, his companion, and Elrond come to stand on either side. He braced himself.

Nil'Tanar expected the Vell-os' probe, but he was not prepared for the swift hard stab that was barely turned aside. The three Elf-lords flinched. Then, wills hardened, they strengthened the mindshield and Nil'Tanar felt no more trace of the Vell-os.

Ryllaen's hands bunched into fists at his sides, then slowly unclenched. A mask dropped over his face, rendering the hard angular features expressionless; the eyes that bore into Nil'Tanar's were completely blank. "Rank and authorisation," he demanded. There was no inflection at all in the flat voice. It could well have belonged to a machine.

"More than yours, Vell-os," Nil'Tanar growled. He hoped that the Bureau followed the same ranking system as the Federation Navy. "Captain, second grade." The probe came again, stronger, and the Elves deflected it with difficulty.

"I require credentials," Ryllaen said. Frustration tinged his tone. "Authorisation. Or allow me to read you."

Nil'Tanar kept his eyes fully trained on Ryllaen, aware of the Elves slowly circling around the edges of the room. They had gone unnoticed by the Vell-os, or else he thought them beneath notice. Nil'Tanar strove to keep Ryllaen's attention on himself. He needed the name of the Bureau head, struggled to remember it. A bird, something similar to the name of the great scientist who had first designed the hypergates that made intersystem travel possible … he had it. "My authorisation comes directly from Commander Krane herself. If you do not stand down I will have you _permanently_ discharged from duty. _Do I make myself clear?_"

Ryllaen did not react for a long moment. Then the fury of energy held in check was pulled into his body and disappeared.

Letting loose some of his tension, Nil'Tanar quietly said, "Very good, Vell-os." He was careful to keep his tone authoritative.

The Vell-os nodded. Without warning he slammed the gathered energy into Nil'Tanar's mind. The three Elves cried out, staggering back under the onslaught. The mindshield shattered. There was nothing gentle about the probe; it was hard and sharp and drilled ruthlessly into the most private parts of the mind. Nil'Tanar's scream of agony as the probe sent waves of fire along his neuronal pathways was nothing compared to the renewed fury that struck through the air as Ryllaen howled roared. The Elves acted before the Vell-os could and struck him from behind, an expert blow behind the ear that sent the Vell-os senseless to the ground.

"Nil'Tanar. That was unwise."

Looking up, the young Nil'kemorya blinked and tried to focus wavering vision on the concerned faces hovering over him. Dimly he wondered when he had returned to Polaris, for the voice spoke perfect Polaran, and when he had fallen. "It worked," he said hoarsely. "The Vell-os–"

"We will heal him."

Nil'Tanar had something very important to tell them, a warning, something he couldn't forget. But his bruised consciousness had already slipped away.

* * *

He woke to the uncontrolled shifting of thought and memory, his mind left in more turmoil by the passage of the Vell-os probe than gaining, and subsequently losing, the first link to his Manta had ever caused. His mind was on fire; he pushed aside the pain and concentrated on his first thought. The Vell-os.

What had the Elves done?

Sick with dread, Nil'Tanar left his chamber and made his way to Ryllaen's, ignoring the Elf trailing behind discreetly. He found the inert Vell-os, neck covered in a swath of bandages, Elrond watching over him.

Nil'Tanar froze. His eyes were caught on the thumb-sized sliver of metal lying abandoned upon a nearby table, connecting wires spread out around it, looking like some spider that had waded through a pool of blood. Swallowing hard, Nil'Tanar forced himself to look at Ryllaen. The Vell-os was pale as a corpse. He barely breathed.

"You removed the enslavement device," he said flatly.

"The body cannot live while the _fëa_ is bound."

Nil'Tanar moved, slowly; he sat with exaggerated care in a chair against the wall, never looking away from the Vell-os. He did not speak. There was nothing he could say, now. Any warning he tried to deliver would be heard too late, understood too little. He had tried, and failed.

The enslavement device had been removed.

He knew about them – what Polaran child did not? The legend of the Vell-os was a cause for wonder, the cunning that had gone into the device created in the decades-long war by the Colonial Council and later improved by the Federation's Bureau, a cause for disgusted fascination. It controlled the instinct of a telepath, the automatic responses of the brain. It allowed no leeway; a Vell-os _could not_ disobey. It rendered them incapable of action against their controller. And more.

The Vell-os had left Earth two thousand years before the hypergates had been invented as the first truly feasible technology to reach beyond their own system, thousands of years before Polaris had been born. In the time before the Colonial Council scouts first came into contact with them, the Vell-os had developed an advanced and specific form of nanotechnology. They used nanites for everything: for art, buildings, health. Nanotechnology gave them perfect health and an extended lifespan. Nanites replaced any natural immune system, until the nanites themselves became an inherent part of Vell-os physiology. They grew organs that produced nanites; any child with at least one Vell-os parent would also have them. They were utterly dependent on their nanites.

The enslavement device produced and released two substances into the body. The first was a poison that destroyed nanites, the second a short-lived antidote that kept the poison dormant. Should the enslavement device ever be interfered with, the antidote would no longer be produced, and only the poison would remain. And the Vell-os, bereft of any immune system, with a body no longer functioning, would die.

And there was _nothing _that Ver'ash or P'aedt, with all their extensive biotechnology, could do to counteract the consequences of the device's removal. It had been attempted. There were branches of both healer and scientist castes that had been working on the problem for centuries, and who would continue to do so. It did not help that the Vell-os were incapable of anything other than opposing their efforts, and that failure meant certain death for the Vell-os freed.

Nil'Tanar sat, unmoving, unheeding of the people around him. There was nothing he could do, except watch the Vell-os slowly die on the bed in front of him.


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer:** Rivendell and Gondolin belong to Tolkien. Polarans and enslavement devices belong to Ambrosia Software and ATMOS.

All characters speak in their respective languages unless specifically stated otherwise. Ie, Elves speak Sindarin, Nil'Tanar speaks Polaran, and Ryllaen speaks Federation Basic.

* * *

He kept watch over them. At the bidding of his lord he shadowed the steps of the grey-cloaked Man, rarely venturing beyond sight unless he knew with certainty the Man's location, never speaking to him. It was not a part of Erestor's duty to converse with the Man, though Gildor Inglorion had taught him the language well. He understood every word the Man spoke, few that they were.

The task was not onerous, for Nil'Tanar seemed interested only in Elrond's comatose patient and spent most of the days in the healing rooms. Erestor found much to interest him merely by studying the Man who was unlike any other he had known. He was so very young, this warrior, whom Elrohir said fought with skill matching that of the more accomplished Elves. It did not surprise Erestor to learn, during one afternoon while Gildor coaxed conversation out of the Man, that he had trained all his life only for battle. Nil'Tanar was devoted to his cause to the exclusion of all else, and Erestor thought that a sad thing indeed. Few were the Elves or Men who desired only to fight, though many gave much of themselves to protect those they loved. To fight was duty, to take joy in the world a homage to life. Eighty years was a long time for a mortal to see only the knife's edge.

The days passed, and Erestor watched the Man's emotions change slowly. There was resignation, and anger born of despair. Nil'Tanar feared that he would never return home, and Erestor knew nothing to gainsay that without knowing where these Men had come from. Guilt laced heavily through his anger; that was easily explained. Nil'Tanar had yet to make the cause of Ryllaen's decline clear to the Elves, though he had tried over and over. But he used words that Gildor could not translate, with thought-images so esoteric that the scion of Finrod could not even begin to make sense of them. His frustration at the communication block was plain; it did not take long before he refused to repeat himself.

Despair changed slowly to puzzlement as Ryllaen hovered near death without crossing the border. Hope crept in, tentative and doubtful, when Ryllaen's condition did not worsen. He began to show signs of healing. Erestor was surprised at the strength of Nil'Tanar's astonishment at this; he knew that the Polaran had not expected Ryllaen to survive, but he had not realised just how certain Nil'Tanar had been that death was inevitable. Nil'Tanar stayed by the bedside, as if by sheer force of presence he could will the other to health.

At last, Ryllaen opened his eyes. He made no other movement, but Erestor could feel his _fëa_, a curious shade of blue that fairly hummed with power, stretch out. The ugly black bands that had chained the _fëa_ were gone, though the scars and open wounds left by the enslavement device remained clear to those with the ability to see. The tendrils that touched Nil'Tanar were nothing like the sharp-tipped spears of power used before, and so Erestor did not interfere. He watched, cautious, his own strength lightly leashed. Erestor harboured no illusions: the Vell-os' power was akin to that of a Maia, and it would take the strength of more than one Elf-lord such as Erestor to keep him at bay. He remained ready nonetheless, though he thought it would not be necessary.

Ryllaen turned his head and glared at Nil'Tanar. "Do that again and I'll kill you," he said roughly. Then he began to weep.

Nil'Tanar shifted uncomfortably. He said nothing, watching the silent tears track down a face that was unguarded for the first time in Erestor's sight, regardless that it was also the first time Erestor had seen him aware. There was a gathering of power around Ryllaen; Erestor tensed. The Polaran jumped when the enslavement device exploded with a blinding flash. The reek of something foul filled the air.

Quieted, Ryllaen relaxed his hold on his power. "You nearly killed me," he said mildly.

Nil'Tanar flinched. Guilt-laden dark eyes rose to meet the Vell-os' gaze. "I tried to tell them. They did not understand. But … how did you survive the destruction of your nanites?"

"I was not born Vell-os." Ryllaen had not moved; now his hands clenched into fists against the crumpled sheets. The words were slow in coming, drawn out in a dreamy calmness lent by shock. "I was a trader, a citizen of the Federation. A passing Vell-os saw that I was a latent telepath and reported me to the Bureau." Bitter memory played across his features, and the stream of thought-images clamped down on them before Erestor caught more than a glimpse of the remembered past. "I do not have the same reliance on nanites as my kin. If I were truly Vell-os, I would be dead now."

He sat up with difficulty, his limbs weak and far too thin for his lanky frame. Silent, he stared at his hands pooled in his lap until the shaking had passed. "Give me your knife."

"I don't have them." Nil'Tanar pulled aside a fold of his tattered cloak, displaying the empty sheaths. He looked a little uneasy, as he had upon waking the first morning in Imladris and discovering his weapons gone. "They won't give them back."

Ryllaen nodded, as if unsurprised, and turned to the Elf who stood unobtrusively just inside the entrance. "Your knife," he requested, "please."

Erestor approached on silent feet. He knew his wariness was plain on his face, and he spoke not a word. Deciding swiftly, he left his sword in its sheath and drew the shorter knife, offering it to Ryllaen hilt first. The Vell-os took it gingerly in one shaking hand. With the other he caught the tangled length of his hair in a fist and pulled it to the front. He stared at it a moment, then with one quick swipe sheared it short. The knife fell from his nerveless grip; Erestor caught it deftly before it pierced the mattress, and retreated to his post.

The long strands hung limply in Ryllaen's fist, thick and tangled. He stared at them with wide stunned eyes. An incoherent shout left his lips as he flung the hair away; the strands shrivelled and burnt to dust in a twist of his power before they hit the floor. Nil'Tanar wrinkled his nose as the stink of burnt hair was added to the already fouled air.

"If you wish to cast fires, do me the courtesy of taking them outside."

Having heard Elrond and Glorfindel approach long before they stepped into the room, Erestor watched with amusement as Nil'Tanar jumped at the sound of Elrond's voice. Their expressions were identically set in mild disapproval.

Ryllaen looked at them. "You freed me."

The Lord of Imladris' gaze flickered to the shapeless remains of the enslavement device. A sliver of thick black smoke rose from it. "Yes."

Ryllaen bowed his head; the ends of his hair swung forward to conceal his face like a ragged veil. A welter of emotions flooded through Erestor, almost overwhelming in their intensity. His brow furrowed; Erestor was certain the Vell-os had not intended the unguarded sending. Out of courtesy, he raised tight shields around his own _fëa_, allowing Ryllaen what privacy he was able as the Man wept in a torrent of shattered nerves.

* * *

It had been days. 

Nil'Tanar haunted the halls of Rivendell. He walked for hours at a controlled, even pace without the intention of going anywhere. It was the only release he would allow himself, and his frustration showed in the relentless pacing.

The Vell-os was free. It was not something Nil'Tanar had ever dreamed would happen, but he accepted it with a pragmatism that allowed him to look to the future and the renewed hope of returning home. The Vell-os was having a much harder time coping with his release from slavery. To be fair, Nil'Tanar understood why. The Vell-os had lived for so long with the enslavement device; it had stunted and scarred him, mind and spirit. Its removal had opened old psychological wounds that the Vell-os was ill equipped to deal with.

He understood, but he did not know how to deal with it. Nil'Tanar had seen firsthand the healing these Elves offered, and determined that he would leave well enough alone and let them attend to the stricken Vell-os. And so he had not approached Ryllaen since the moment he had woken. The Vell-os needed time to deal with his situation. He did not need an impatient Polaran demanding his return home at every opportunity.

Nil'Tanar had determined thus, and held himself to his decision. But it was hard. Patience did not come to him easily now that their escape from this planet was possible. Still, he waited, knowing that he may well do more harm than good if he approached Ryllaen now. He paced.

"You are not like other Men I have seen."

Nil'Tanar turned around and smiled at the young stranger standing a courteous distance away. He held himself as tall as his youth allowed; the open friendliness in his expression and the inquisitive light in his eyes made Nil'Tanar's smile widen. Gildor had spent idle hours in the infirmary teaching him the language of the Elves. His understanding was not perfect, but he utilised what he knew now.

"You are not like other Elves I have seen," Nil'Tanar returned, noting with some surprise that the boy was human. He observed the tension that entered and left the boy's shoulders. The boy was not dressed in the manner of the Elves he had become accustomed to seeing, though the style was far finer than that worn by the human farmers. Yet, apart from all of youth's charm, he held a hint of the nobility of the Elves.

"I am not an Elf," the boy said after a moment. He studied Nil'Tanar's face, and seemed to relax. "I am of the race of Men, like yourself."

Nil'Tanar raised a brow. "I do not think so." The boy's face clouded over, and he quickly added, "I am Polaran. You are not."

"No," the boy agreed easily. "I have not heard of your people. Are they far from Imladris?" Nil'Tanar nodded wordlessly. "Farther even than Gondor?"

"Yes," he replied, grave. He did not know of Gondor, but any place the boy named could not be other than planetbound. "Farther even than Gondor."

Something in his tone must have alerted the boy, for his expression quickly shifted into sympathy. "You must miss them. I miss my family also, though Father comes to visit sometimes."

He brightened, then, and began to describe the last visit from his father and uncle. In his excitement he spoke faster, and Nil'Tanar could not understand the quick foreign words. Struggling to hide his laughter, the Polaran warrior interrupted the boy's chatter.

"I am Nil'Tanar," he said.

The boy blinked, flushing slowly. "Forgive me," he begged, his contrition written over his expressive face. "I did not mean to be so rude. I am Arahad son of Aravorn." He stood stiffly, as if anxious of Nil'Tanar's disapproval. But the Polaran's open grin soon reassured him, and he relaxed.

Nil'Tanar listened to the boy talk, studying him with a slight smile on his face. The boy was self-assured, like many youths, yet possessed of a maturity that was greater than his apparent age. When he reached the end of another tale Nil'Tanar interjected before the next could start, "Arahad, well met. You… remind me of one I know. She was Kel'ariy."

"Kel'ariy?" the boy questioned.

Nil'Tanar searched for a word that translated the entire meaning. He could not think of it, and settled for the easiest alternative. "Leader," he replied at last. "You will be a leader of your people, Arahad." He bowed.

Arahad returned the bow, puzzled yet pleased. They talked a little more before the boy took his leave and Nil'Tanar continued his interrupted pacing. An Elf stepped up beside him on silent feet; Nil'Tanar suppressed the urge to jump. "Glorfindel," he greeted.

The golden-haired Elf-lord returned a nod. "You see far," he observed, speaking Polaran with only a slight accent.

Switching to his native language with considerable relief, Nil'Tanar shook his head and laughed softly. He realised that speaking with the boy had lightened his mood. "I see what is before me. Arahad is very much like Kel'Mari was."

"Does that grieve you?"

A little surprised at the Elf's piercing glance, Nil'Tanar let his mind drift back to the woman who had been both teacher and friend. "A little. She was Kel'ariy, but she was Nil'kemorya first and last. She was on a routine inspection mission to our outposts, and fell defending Nil'a Ya against an Auroran raid."

Glorfindel gazed at him with eyes that lacked their usual mirth, and Nil'Tanar became aware of the full weight of the Elf-lord's age bearing down on him. "You hate them, these Aurorans. You speak of them often in war."

"No! I–" Nil'Tanar stopped. He _had_ hated them, he realised with a shock. It was wrong, dangerous. A warrior could not afford to be swayed by such emotions in the heat of battle; he was trained against it, had been warned to respect his opponent always and never underestimate them. And yet he had allowed himself this hate and sneaking contempt. It was easy to dislike the Aurorans and the Federation. Both empires, primitive and dictatorial, both with an unhealthy lust for Polaris territory. Were it not for them, the Nil'kemorya would not lose so many of their number in the border skirmishes. But–

"Once I bore shield and arms for Gondolin," Glorfindel said. The change of topic startled Nil'Tanar, and he raised his eyes to find the Elf gazing into an unseen distance, and the ancient grandeur in that face took his breath away. "Fair and mighty was my city, Gondolin the great, city of seven names. Our kingdom was hidden, the ways secret, and we desired not to mingle in the woes of Elves and Men without. None were suffered to enter, nor went we forth, and we heeded not tidings of the lands beyond. Of all dwellings in the Hither Lands, Gondolin's fame and glory was greatest."

"What happened?" The question was drawn out of Nil'Tanar, who spoke it almost unwillingly. He did not think he would like the answer.

"Darkness came," Glorfindel replied. The grief upon his face was terrible. "We rejected counsel of our doom, and treachery revealed us to our enemies. The Hidden Kingdom fell and is no more."

There was something here that Nil'Tanar had no wish to contemplate. His thoughts floundered, until he caught the trailing edge of Glorfindel's original question and followed it with relief. "Sometimes I hate Aurorans. But they are not like your orcs. They are barbarians, a primitive race that values warriors and battle over all else. But they have their own brand of honour."

"As primitive as we?"

"Not quite _this_ primitive," Nil'Tanar muttered, his thoughts elsewhere. Then his eyes widened. "Forgive me!" he said. "I did not mean–"

Glorfindel's mirthful laughter rang clear in the hall. "Think not of it. I have been called many things, and _primitive_ is not the worst."

The Elf paused; Nil'Tanar looked ahead and glimpsed a balcony at the end of the hall. He did not recognise the person sitting slumped against one pillar with his back to them, until he remembered that the Vell-os had cropped his hair.

"I will leave you now," Glorfindel said.

He was gone before Nil'Tanar could reply, and the Polaran warrior was left facing the back of the Vell-os.

* * *

**Notes**

Arahad: great-grandfather of the Aragorn we know and love. All the sons of the chieftains since Arahael were fostered in Rivendell.

'Of Tuor and the Fall of Gondolin', _The Silmarillion_, is paraphrased and greatly simplified by Glorfindel.


	12. Chapter 12

All characters speak in their respective languages unless specifically stated otherwise. Ie, Elves speak Sindarin, Nil'Tanar speaks Polaran, and Ryllaen speaks Federation Basic.

* * *

The voices were back again, an angry echo in his ears that never ceased. They were so, so angry, and time had not diminished the hurt. He had not expected it to, and he savoured the strength of his memory, the clarity of the voices that he would never hear again.

The ground was warm beneath him, the pillar cool against his back. The sun was shining with gentle summer warmth, but he did not feel it. His eyes saw only the shadows cast by cloud and leaf, not the glimmer of green-gold that shone through each leaf like faceted gems. He missed the sparkle of water tumbling down one of the many streams, seeing only a distant haze of grey rock.

"_It's good to see you again – I haven't heard from you in years. What have you been doing with yourself?"_

"_Nothing much. Travelling, trading . . . what are you doing on New England, Gordon?"_

_Laughter. "Travelling, trading. You know how it goes."_

Six years, and though they were by no means the only voices that haunted his memory, they were the loudest and the most painful. Death and betrayal had been his constant companions for nearly a decade. It made him physically sick to contemplate it. He had not eaten much in days, nor slept, for the voices prevented one and his conscience the other.

"_They say this is a democracy, but I'm beginning to doubt it. Really, how many people can vote for the same idiot as president twice in a row? And the Council – a bigger morass of pointless and ineffective bureaucracy was never created. The Federation needs an overhaul of its political system. It's been in place before half the worlds were even populated."_

"_Don't say things like that, Gordon, please."_

"_Why not? It's nothing we haven't said before."_

Afternoon sun painted the forest golden. Fingers of sunlight speared through the light foliage, filling the air with a warm haze. The power that filled Rivendell was a soft, suffocating blanket that could not pierce the cold within. He had never felt so at odds with himself. His memory was filled with jagged wounds that had never been given the chance to heal. The destruction of the enslavement device had brought them back to the surface, as fresh as though no time had passed.

"_What's wrong? I've never seen you this morose, not even when you split up with Kiana."_

"_Nothing's wrong, Gordon. Tell me more about your new ship."_

"_You think that's going to work, Ford? I'm your brother. I _know_ you. What's wrong?"_

"_Nothing's wrong."_

They clamoured for his attention, the voices of his victims, but one was louder than all the rest. One would always be louder. That wound had struck at his heart, his blood, his soul. He could not face it; could not help but remember it.

"_What's that on your neck? It looks like an implant."_

"_It is. Just a bit of surgery I had to have for an accident."_

"_I've seen something like it before. _Why_ do you have a Vell-os implant, Ford?"_

"_It's nothing. Gordon, I have to go. Just tell me you didn't mean anything you said tonight."_

"_But I do. It bears investigating. I know you've never been interested in politics, but really. The current system is terribly prejudiced and biased in favour of the core worlds. You remember Cantos Viriden? He went into law, and he's noticed something fishy about the judicial system. It's subtle and kind of hard to spot, but you know how Cantos was with the little details. Overall a lot of the cases that have passed through the higher courts seem to produce outcomes favourable to Senate members and government subsidiaries, even when there's no precedent. Even the Vell-os judged cases follow the pattern. He thinks someone is rigging the trials. It's damned suspicious. Even you must see that."_

"_No. No, I don't see that. Leave it alone, Gordon. Please."_

_Laughter. "You know I never let go of something I've got my teeth stuck into."_

It was the last time he had heard that bright, rough scatter of laughter, the last time he had seen that familiar face unclouded by anger and fear. He felt like screaming; clenching his hands so tight that ragged fingernails bit into his palms, he leant his head back against the smooth carving of the pillar and stared blankly into the sky. He did not want to remember. It hurt so much he could not breathe. He was pale and dizzy, just as he had been then.

"_Cantos is _dead_, Ford! They say he was killed resisting arrest. For what? He's never done anything wrong in his life! I don't know what to do."_

"_Just stay there, Gordon. It will be over soon."_

" What_ will be over? Ford, what's going on?"_

No. _No._ It was too much. It had not been his first betrayal, nor his last. But it was, in many ways, the worst, and too much. Far, far too much. He did not want to remember the fear that shone clearly in his brother's face over the hyperlink, did not want to feel again the constriction in his throat and the words he struggled to voice, the scream of warning that he could not, _could not_ release. He did not want to remember the report he had made against every fibre of his being, the report that had lead to his own brother's arrest.

He had killed his brother. Even while his mind twisted and screamed with denial, despite the tightness that clenched his heart, he moved like a good little slave, an automaton that fulfilled its programming mindlessly.

His own _brother_!

He was burning, roasting alive in the fires of his memory. The faces of the dead filled his vision. Cantos. Gordon. The Auroran spy who had genuinely tried to befriend a Vell-os. Hundreds of ordinary Federation citizens. The unknowing telepath he had manoeuvred to her death rather than face the same fate as himself. And all the while he followed the orders of his masters, the Bureau, until all thought to the contrary had drowned in an ocean of unbreakable obedience.

But he had pushed. For a decade he had tested the chains that dictated his actions and had never found any leeway. Now, though, those bonds were gone. There was nothing left to fight against, no barrier between his conscience and the deeds he had done. No buffer against the actions he was responsible for. All that was left of him was his memory. The voices. They scalded him with their accusations.

He had spent days like this on Earth, in the exquisitely manicured gardens that had been maintained even through the minimalist utilitarianism of the Colonial Council. Days between missions; sitting, standing, alone with his memories. But they had not burned then, when his soul and actions had been trapped in dark chains, as they did now. Ryllaen could not breathe for a moment, the homesickness rising up in him so painful that he gasped. Earth was not his home; he had not been born there. But it was familiar, and it was the capital of the Federation. He yearned for the stars, for the vast spaces between and the planets with their myriad colours, their people. Ryllaen ached to stand in the midst of the nebulae that danced with weave patterns only the Vell-os could see, the energy emanating from them twisting around and around in a manner both confusing and beautiful, the endless cycle of birth and destruction that ruled the genesis of stars. He had spent days in Obatta, surrounded by the nebula, finding peace in a universe that held no comfort for a slave. It had been something greater than him, grander and infinitely simpler. There he had felt, for just a moment, a part of it, of the whole, of the universe. That feeling was gone now, had been gone for a long time, lost to the pain and immediacy of life.

Footsteps sounded against the polished floor; reverie broken, he looked up to meet Nil'Tanar's gaze. The Polaran had said very little since the destruction of the enslavement device; Ryllaen was grateful for that consideration. And it was consideration solely for his wellbeing. He knew that with a single brush against the Polaran's mind. He did not care to look further and withdrew into himself.

The voices were so very loud.

"You are free now," Nil'Tanar said after a moment.

Ryllaen did not reply.

"What is your name?"

Ryllaen raised his head. He did not understand the question.

The Polaran settled on his heels against the opposite pillar, his tattered but clean grey cloak pooling around his feet. The boots were the same lightweight synthetic mould that he had always worn, looking incongruous against the rough homespun weave of his borrowed clothes. The long exposure to this sun's radiation with no other protection than the atmosphere had darkened his skin tone, a light bronze against the angry red of new scars. Dark eyes regarded the Vell-os from beneath a fringe of black hair that had lengthened to curl against his neck.

Nil'Tanar spoke again. "You said that you were once a trader. Your name is a Vell-os one; you cannot always have had it. What was your name then?"

"Ford." It was difficult to say. His voice was rough and dry. "Ford Shirens."

It was the name of a stranger.

"Should I call you by that name?"

He could not remember being Ford Shirens, could not remember what it had felt like not to be a slave. The name of a stranger, one he could not connect to. But the Polaran had never addressed him as anything but _Vell-os_ anyway. He did not answer.

Already uncomfortable but stubborn enough not to show it, Nil'Tanar's expression was beginning to lose its composure. "Do you have family?"

_Gordon_.

"No!" His cry was almost a shout, full of anger and pain.

Startled, Nil'Tanar's head rose. His dark gaze read the rejection in the lines of Ryllaen's face, the set of his mouth and the wide eyes. "I'm sorry," he offered carefully.

Ryllaen subsided. He was lost. The spears of sunlight that swept through the trees blinded his eyes. They shone through him, through the panes of his soul like glass, and it was empty. He turned, and looked at Nil'Tanar, and reached out with one hand. Nil'Tanar froze in surprise; the act was one of such intimacy, such vulnerability, of a child seeking blind comfort from a parent. The Polaran warrior could not move; it was as if the cold fingers trembling against his cheek, a touch so light he could barely feel it as a brush of air against skin, held him paralysed.

"Vell-os?" he prompted, gentler than was his wont.

The whisper was low and forlorn. "I am lost."

Brows furrowed, Nil'Tanar thought for a moment. "Then retrace your steps."

"I don't know how." Ryllaen turned away, let his hand fall to his side. "I don't want to."

Released, the Polaran leaned back against his pillar. His eyes were troubled and wary. "Do you not wish to return home?"

_Yes. No._

There was a tightness in his throat; Ryllaen's breath hitched. The pressure squeezing his chest caught; he suppressed it ruthlessly. It seemed easy to do, now. "I don't have a home." He sucked in air once, then again as his breathing eased back into a steady rhythm.

"We all have a home," Nil'Tanar said. But though his eyes flashed, he spoke mildly. "I belong to Polaris; so too do you belong to your Federation, be it as the citizen you were or the Vell-os you became. _That_ is your home."

Ryllaen was unaccountably angry. Through narrowed eyes he glared at the Polaran and hissed, "You're trying to convince me to leave this planet. All you want is to get off this rock. I'm the only chance you've got."

"Yes," Nil'Tanar agreed readily. "I want to return home; more, it is my duty. But that does not make what I have said any less true." He hesitated, then shook his head and stood up. "You are damaged; these Elves have done a miracle to free you, but I do not think they can help any further. Whether you hate them or not, the Vell-os are the only ones who can heal you now."

He barked out harsh laughter. "Not even your vaunted Polaris technology? You would not even try your superior Polaris technology? Does it bother you that these primitives managed something you Polarans could not?"

Nil'Tanar's eyes narrowed. "Yes!" he said, his voice rising at last out of the calm restraint he had held onto. "Yes, we are more advanced than you. Yes, Polaris is superior to both the Federation and the Aurora Empire. It matters not to me; we want nothing to do with them. But we remember. It was the Vell-os who first reached the stars a thousand years before the rest. It was the Vell-os who owned a science greater than what we know, and it was the Vell-os who were closest to the universe. I do not know if they are now – I do not believe it, not while they are slaves. But you are one of them still. Remember that, if nothing else, and remember where you belong." Breathing hard, he left the balcony in a flurry of grey material and frustrated steps.

Ryllaen slumped with a sigh. He had managed to rile the Polaran, but it had left him less satisfied than it should have. The Polaran had been trying, he knew, to be kind. He had never made that effort before – it had never been anywhere within the realm of consideration. Ryllaen laughed again, bitterly.

Should he be treated any differently, now that he was not bound by a sliver of metal?

It was almost as if the Polaran expected him to be a completely different person, more human than he had been, less a threat. A possible ally, rather than a certain enemy. And perhaps he _had_ been different, once. Perhaps he could have had the ability to become different again. But ten years was a long time.

Ryllaen swallowed against the throb of heartache and fear that clung to the back of his throat.


	13. Chapter 13

All characters speak in their respective languages unless specifically stated otherwise. Ie, Elves speak Sindarin, Nil'Tanar speaks Polaran, and Ryllaen speaks Federation Basic.

* * *

The moment stretched into silence. Ryllaen stared back at him with the blank, neutral mask perfected by so many Vell-os. The mane of hair, shoulder length now, was tidier than he had ever seen it, save for that first glimpse on his Manta. Nil'Tanar allowed himself to study it for a moment, contemplating the implications of what the other had just said. At last, he met the Vell-os' gaze.

"What are you up to?" he asked, well aware of the open suspicion in his tone. But he did not take back the question.

Ryllaen's brow rose. "Do I need some nefarious purpose?"

"You are born, raised and trained by your Federation."

His eyes flashed. Mouth tight with anger, he said, "We are not all spies and schemers. There are billions of completely innocent people in the Federation."

Nil'Tanar huffed in disbelief. "And you're going to tell me that your government isn't corrupt at its very foundation?"

It was the wrong thing to say. Ryllaen's face twisted, and slid back into the impassive mask that Nil'Tanar suspected had been worn whenever the Vell-os had worked with the Bureau. It disturbed him to be compared to the Vell-os' former masters, and he wondered what the other was hiding. The Nil'kemorya silently cursed himself for his thoughtless comment, but did not try for the calm voice that had so angered Ryllaen before. He did not know what to make of the man standing composed in front of him. It was not so long ago that he had seen the man utterly broken.

"Why do you want to leave Rivendell?" he tried.

Ryllaen gazed at him a moment in silence, and appeared to reach some decision. "It's time to leave," he said.

Nil'Tanar understood his meaning instantly. His heart leapt. He could almost see the stars within reach, feel the vast empty space surround him. He suppressed the surge of hope viciously. "Are you able?"

"To leave this planet, yes. I am as strong as I will ever be. Once beyond the gravity well, whatever it is that's maintaining the weaves against me will have little effect. Returning to a known system–" he shrugged, "it's risky, and we could run out of supplies in a few months without ever finding a way back, but the chance is better than staying here."

Those were words Nil'Tanar had spoken often, though usually in the semi-privacy of his own thoughts. To hear them repeated back at him without knowing why the Vell-os had come to this decision was no small cause of unease. "Why now? Why, after three weeks? I've seen little of you these past few days, and you were in no shape to fly before."

Shrugging again, Ryllaen looked away. "I don't want to spend the rest of my life here. And I want to get as far away from whatever that is to the east as I can."

Nil'Tanar's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"It is . . . searching. Not strongly, nor thoroughly; it avoids conflict with Elrond and the other powerful Elves here. But I have felt it – occasionally – brush against my mind."

With a start, the Polaran warrior remembered the horror reflected in the Vell-os' expression, and the grimness of the Elves at the human homestead when they refused to speak of the corruption to the east. "What is it?"

"I don't know." Ryllaen's eyes were dark with memory. "Something powerful. Something horrible and closer to true evil than anything you may think the Federation capable of. Something I _never_ want to come into contact with."

"I believe you," Nil'Tanar said quietly, "but I know there is something else, Vell-os. What?"

Ryllaen scowled. His voice was harsh. "I'm offering to take you home, Polaran. This is the last chance you get. It doesn't matter to _me_ if I leave you behind."

This was the Vell-os he remembered, before the enslavement device was removed. He wondered what had happened to make Ryllaen rebuild the shields that had been broken; he could read neither intent nor the emotions behind the hard shell the Vell-os had surrounded himself with. But he had no choice. Despite his suspicions, there was only one thing Nil'Tanar could say, and he agreed to leave Rivendell.

Procuring supplies involved dealing with strange Elves who, while friendly and filled with bright chatter and laughter, seemed to delight in playing riddles and games, and managed to keep the two aliens occupied for hours without achieving anything. It came as no surprise to Nil'Tanar that the cheerfully obstructive Elves only became truly helpful after Elrohir and Glorfindel appeared. He smiled wryly; seeing Ryllaen's resignation, he knew that the Vell-os also realised they would not be getting anything without the permission of the Elf-lords.

"You intend to leave," Glorfindel stated without preamble.

Elrohir was looking at the rapidly growing pile of food. "For how long do you travel to regain your lands?"

Ryllaen and Nil'Tanar looked at each other.

"I don't know," replied Ryllaen. "Weeks, perhaps months." He hesitated. "Maybe never."

"As long as it takes," interjected Nil'Tanar with a fierceness that took the Elves aback.

"Will you keep us here against our wills?"

Elrohir raised a brow at Ryllaen. "You are not prisoners," he replied. "You speak of an uncertain journey, the end of which you know not, for all that your hope is high. It is not for one such as I to say you nay or yea to the urgings of your heart. Neither will we impede you, for you are not enemies. Yet I will counsel you to linger within these walls 'til you have considered all paths before you and your course becomes clear."

"Our course is clear," Ryllaen said calmly. "Will you see us to the boundaries of your land?"

"We will," Glorfindel agreed.

Ryllaen nodded, once, and turned away to count the growing pile of supplies. Nil'Tanar caught a glimpse of some quickly suppressed emotion and looked at him with fresh suspicion.

They left Rivendell the next morning, joined by Galind and Eiliant. The Wood-elves said that it was time they returned to Mirkwood. There was a light in their eyes as they made their own quick preparations; they intended to see the manner of their parting before they reported back to Legolas. Nil'Tanar did not blame them; a Vell-os formed craft was an exotic and beautiful sight, more spectacular than the ill-shaped Dart they had seen before. But he questioned Ryllaen's desire to walk out of Rivendell before they left the planet.

"Elrond," replied the Vell-os succinctly. "His mind envelopes everything in his territory. It inhibits my ability to weave."

"Much evil does my father keep from Imladris," Elrohir said. "These lands he has claimed as his own, and his power provides nurture and protection. Nil'Tanar," he added, turning to the Polaran, "these belong to you." He held three blades, hilts toward Nil'Tanar, over one forearm with a deftness that would have defied any casual attempt by a human.

The Polaran warrior accepted them with a bow. The tension he carried in his shoulders melted away with their weight in their sheaths; he had not realised how much he missed his weapons, and felt suddenly that it was really possible he could return home.

The journey to the boundary of Rivendell was accompanied by the quick flow of words and laughter between the Elves. The two aliens were silent; what Ryllaen was thinking behind shuttered eyelids, Nil'Tanar could not say. Now that the prospect of leaving this planet forever behind was real, Nil'Tanar looked upon the river valley with a fresh eye for the natural beauty of the land. And it was breathtakingly beautiful, a habitation built within the folds of nature without overly disturbing the delicate ecosystem. For the first time, he truly appreciated it and acknowledged that, though it could not compare to the great ringworld of Tre'ar Helonis, this planet would be fixed forever in his memory. Not, he thought wryly, that there had been any doubt of that.

They crossed the river by a low stone bridge. Ryllaen relaxed immediately. His back straightened, he lost the tension in his shoulders, his fingers unfurled at his sides. His mouth was set in a purposeful line; he drew the attention of the Elves, who regarded him with thoughtful expressions. Glorfindel especially seemed wary; Nil'Tanar could not fault him for that, for the Vell-os had never lost his peculiar fixation on the golden-haired Elf. They walked for another hour, and Rivendell was long hidden by the road behind before Ryllaen stopped at a wide flat area.

"Here," he said.

He had not turned to face them. There was something in his voice, a note of triumph that raised the hairs on the back of Nil'Tanar's neck. Instinct had often kept him alive in battle; he had learnt early not to ignore them. And they were telling him now that he should brace for an attack.

The sharp crackle of energy ripped through the air. Behind Nil'Tanar, a cry of surprise and alarm was cut off abruptly. He whirled in time to see four slender bodies collapse. The sight was inexplicable; he gaped before he registered what he was seeing, and spun back to face the Vell-os.

"What are you doing?" he demanded.

For the first time in days, Ryllaen's expression was open. There was a great confusion of emotions there, the twisting threads of determination running through a complex storm, but Nil'Tanar was too blinded by shock to read the answers he sought.

Ryllaen did not reply. His gaze travelled to Glorfindel's still form, and he took a step forward.

Nil'Tanar was ice-cold, frozen in place. This was a treachery he had not anticipated. "No," he spoke through numb lips. "Vell-os, don't do this."

"You have a choice, Polaran." The voice was hard, a knife's edge held to the throat with deadly intent. "Hinder me and stay to rot on this planet, or don't interfere."

"Don't do this," Nil'Tanar repeated. "There's no _reason_! Let him be. You don't need to do this, Vell-os."

"But there is reason," Ryllaen said softly. The golden Elf-lord rose into the air at the Vell-os' bidding, wrapped in a blanket of energy weaves, drifting at waist level over the rocks to settle between the two aliens. "Don't you see him shine?"

Nil'Tanar never looked at the unconscious Elf. He stared into the Vell-os' eyes, and felt hollow. "He's no threat to you. Let him go, Vell-os. You're free now – _he_ freed you! – you don't have to do this. There is no honour in this!"

"Yes, I am free." There was madness there, behind the calm, flat voice, memory burning its brand into reason until it had passed all recognition. "He will free us all."

"He will not!" Nil'Tanar cried. He would have surged forward, but energy was woven into a weapon around the Vell-os, and Nil'Tanar _knew_ he would be killed the moment he moved. He recognised now the insanity that the Vell-os had so successfully hidden. Wondered how many years of slavery it had taken to twist him like this. How many more it had taken to hide it. "He cannot! _You_ nearly died; the others _will_ die! This is his home, the only planet he's ever known. They've never even been to their moon! You don't need him; he can't help you. Ryllaen, _don't do this!_"

The Vell-os blinked, surprised. It was the first time Nil'Tanar had ever addressed him by name. Then he smiled. There was nothing but bitterness and mockery in the curve of lips. "Would you stay behind," he asked curiously, "if it meant that I left _him_ here too?"

The Nil'kemorya was silent.

Ryllaen laughed then. The sound was harsh and cutting, wounded and meant to wound. "You are foolish, Polaran," he said. "You don't understand. He has been beyond the veil."

Nil'Tanar's thoughts crashed to a halt at those words. His gaze dropped, heavy, to the Elf, who had begun to stir. _Beyond the veil._ His entire universe pivoted, collapsed, and formed again on those three words. And one name.

_Ory'hara._

It was a legend, a prophecy, a truth. It never even occurred to him that he should doubt the Vell-os; he remembered well the awe-filled gaze of the Vell-os, the light shining around the Elf in battle, the grace behind ancient, ancient eyes in the youthful, inhumanly beautiful face. _Beyond the veil_. A Vell-os euphemism, that, translated from the original thought-images into the unwieldy spoken language that was Federation Basic, but the words translated as easily into a name with much more significance to the Polaris.

_Ory'hara._

Nil'Tanar looked up at Ryllaen, new purpose in his stance, in the grip on his knife. He no longer cared if he lived or died, left this planet or returned home. He wasn't important. The Polaran warrior launched himself at the Vell-os, knife blade first, intent only on protecting Glorfindel. He was dimly aware of the clamour of voices from the newly awakened Elves and the streak of silver-blond hair moving across his peripheral vision. His narrowing focus was on the Vell-os, and the snare of weaves he ran headlong into, sending an agony of fire through his nerves.


	14. Chapter 14

All characters speak in their respective languages unless specifically stated otherwise. Ie, Elves speak Sindarin, Nil'Tanar speaks Polaran, and Ryllaen speaks Federation Basic.

* * *

The world was a room, a cage; its walls, blue flame frozen into solidity. The walls, the floor, the ceiling, all were the same featureless blue. It was static, hard to the touch, and unpleasant to feel. Fifteen paces long, ten paces wide. Glorfindel stalked along the boundaries of the room, a caged animal searching for escape. There was none; no entrance existed, nothing that might mark a change in the smooth blue energy that surrounded them.

The Silvan Elf Eiliant stood to one side, his alarm at this situation shown in his absolute lack of movement, the still watchfulness of eyes wider than usual. The Wood-elf's first instinct in danger was to blend in, be camouflaged: disappear. There was no possibility of that in this blue prison, but Eiliant, after one glance at Glorfindel upon waking that placed the older Elf-lord firmly in charge, obeyed his instinct as best he could, making of himself an unobtrusive statue.

Nil'Tanar also had not spoken a word. He sat with his back against a wall, unheeding or insensitive to the disconcerting tingle that contact brought to the skin, and stared straight ahead. His expression was frighteningly blank.

Through the hazy cerulean glow of one wall, Glorfindel could see Ryllaen, alone and sword-straight in a similar room barely large enough to stand with arms outreached. His back was to his unwilling passengers, but Glorfindel doubted it would make any difference if he could see the Man's face. There was a distance between them greater than the separation of a single wall made of energy.

And beyond the other walls . . . ah, beyond the other walls, there was nothing.

Darkness was all about them, the Void, and the glimmering light of Varda's stars, bright and steady as they could never be seen from Arda. There was no earth, no water, no trees. There was nothing that might be seen within Elven sight. They were in the sky, in Manwë's domain, amongst Varda's creations.

He struggled with it; a song came to mind, unbidden, of Eärendil's ship set in the heavens, and he wondered, distantly, if he might see again the ancient Mariner lost to them in Ages past. The stars were bright; they brought comfort to him where little else seemed comforting. Glorfindel murmured a prayer and praise to Elbereth, as Varda was most often called, the words barely audible to his own ears, and turned at last to seeking the answers to his many questions.

And he had very, very many.

"Nil'Tanar."

The Man raised weary eyes to meet Glorfindel's stern gaze.

"What is this?"

The Polaran seemed to flinch, and lowered his gaze almost immediately.

Glorfindel frowned. "Why do you hold us captive?" It was an accusation, no matter how much he tried to modulate his tone. He was beyond anger, beyond fury. But there was a danger here, and Glorfindel struggled against his instinct to fight.

Nil'Tanar stared at the golden-haired Elf's leather-clad feet for a long time before lifting his gaze once again. "Tell me," he said at last, "are you the One? Did you truly die?"

It was not the response Glorfindel expected; it startled him badly enough that he took a step backward, bringing his heels into proximity with the blue wall. He was silent, but Nil'Tanar must have read something in his expression.

The Polaran rose slowly. "He said that you have been beyond the veil, that you died and became One with the universe." Nil'Tanar had never been overly demonstrative, but it had always been easy for sharp Elven eyes with millennia of experience in reading Men to interpret his expressions, alien though he was. There was nothing at all to read in the quiet voice now.

Glorfindel stood still in the flood of memory called by Nil'Tanar's words. He felt again the lash of the Balrog's whip, the burning that would not abate in every wound marked by the edge of its fiery sword. Gondolin burned behind his back, his fair city hidden no longer, its location marked for all to see by a beacon of smoke twisting above the mountains. Turgon was dead with his city; Ecthelion lay broken by his fountain. The grief was overwhelming. He was numbed by terror that he was the last of his House. The darkness clawed at his battered _fëa_, sending fear and agony past his shields. He would have faltered, but for the refugees in the pass. Idril yet lived, and her young child Eärendil. And if there was even a chance that one of the House of the Golden Flower, one of _his_ people, had escaped the sacking of Gondolin . . . Glorfindel stood between the refugees and the Balrog. He flung himself at his opponent.

And fell.

The golden-haired Elf-lord blinked, momentarily surprised to find himself in a blue prison that bore absolutely no resemblance to the Halls of Mandos. The strange Man was looking at him, waiting patiently for an answer. Eiliant was also looking at him, but in stillness he offered respect.

"I died," he replied at last, fighting to keep his voice level. Now, even now after the long span of years after his return spent serving Eärendil's son, caring for his grandsons, he could not speak of this with equanimity. "And was Rehoused."

Nil'Tanar's eyes widened, as if he _understood_ the import of what Glorfindel had just said. It was impossible, of course. Only Mandos himself might understand the consequences of the gift he granted sparingly. The Polaran knelt on one knee and bowed low. He held the position, face bent to the ground, dark hair shadowing jaw and eye. The grey cloak fell about him and pooled in an arc on the hard blue floor. "I saw the weaves but did not understand. I beg your forgiveness, Ory'hara."

Glorfindel gazed down at the pale neck exposed by the fall of curling dark hair. The obeisance made him uneasy. This was not the respect shown by Eiliant, somewhat awed in the face of a living legend, warrior to warrior; no, this was something else entirely. The utter servility in the Polaran's posture disturbed him.

"What is this?" he said softly.

The other did not move or speak. His breath had quickened, and his position must have ached against the tingle of Vell-os energy, but he showed no signs of his discomfort. Eiliant watched from the side, as perplexed as Glorfindel, and made no move to intrude on the tableau.

"Nil'Tanar."

The Man rose immediately. "Ory'hara."

There was awe in his eyes, a portion of the fear that Ryllaen had at first shown. There was no more conflict of disdain, arrogance and gratitude. No suspicion, no confusion. They were all gone, wiped clean, scoured from his mind and replaced by the fervour of a devotion that was frightening in its solidity.

Eiliant spoke for the first time. "What is Ory'hara?"

Turning to the Wood-elf with evident relief, Nil'Tanar replied, "He who is One with all. He who's coming is foretold. He who–" Nil'Tanar broke off suddenly. His gaze wandered; he studied the stars beyond the blue walls, looking for something imperceptible to the Elves. He smiled tightly at them. There was shame in his eyes, a measure of helplessness and anger combined. "We've reached jump distance. You'll want to look outside."

Glorfindel glanced out – and stilled. There had been no sense of motion before, nothing to indicate they were doing anything but hanging in the void pierced by the light of Elbereth's creations. Nothing had moved that was not within their blue prison, no breath of air indicated that they were falling through the void. Nevertheless, the motion he had not noticed before was . . . _gone_. It was as though they were halted on the brink of something, suspended from a movement he had not felt.

And then the stars _moved_.

He felt––drawn into them and––pulled apart, everywhere and nowhere at once, as if he were falling at great speed whilst moving not at all. Before his eyes there was complete darkness and a dazzling display of light; the neat white pinpricks of starlight stretched into rainbow streaks that slashed across the blackness shrouding his vision.

As suddenly as the sense of motionless displacement began, it stopped.

The Elves drew in deep, shuddering breaths. Eiliant was pale and looked near to collapse; Glorfindel locked his legs into stance, learned from years on battlefields and night watches. It held him upright, though his muscles felt weak.

Looking beyond the blue walls of their cage, Glorfindel's dizziness grew until it threatened to overwhelm him. He was no longer in his place in the world, and he was utterly lost. He _knew_, fully and without doubt, that these were not the stars that had been set about Arda by the hands of Elbereth Star-Kindler. These were not the stars born to give light to the world before the First Awakening; he would not find Eärendil here, a silmaril upon his brow and rime-frosted hands upon the wheel of his ship. As far from Arda as he had been a moment before, he was now immeasurably farther.

He did not think even Elbereth's grace could reach him now.

"Strangely beautiful, isn't it?"

Glorfindel whipped around. He had forgotten the Polaran warrior that sat with an expression slowly returning to neutral lines, losing the last hints of wonder that remained in his voice.

"You've just seen what many P'aedt would give their lives to experience: raw hyperspace, unshielded by the hull and instruments of a ship. Only the Vell-os are capable of providing that, and they're not amenable to frivolous requests."

Eiliant was scowling. Fierce and fey, his grey eyes glinted with anger, unappreciative of the strange wry humour that had overcome Nil'Tanar. "It is not our time to leave Arda. Return us."

"Your chances of getting home have just drastically decreased, I'm afraid, unless you can convince _him_–" Nil'Tanar nodded towards the hazy silhouette of the Vell-os, "–to turn around. Good luck."

"You say that you hold no responsibility for this?"

"I don't." A hint of Nil'Tanar's customary pride and self-assurance shone through, before he bowed his head and settled again into a humble posture. "Forgive me, Ory'hara. I did not realise his intentions in time to stop him."

"You tried?"

"I failed."

Glorfindel shook his head. He paced a bit more, hesitated, and then faced the wall that separated them from their captor. He raised his voice but did not try to intrude upon the other's mind, for he well remembered the injuries Gildor had sustained from that action. "Ryllaen! Vell-os!"

The other made no sign of having heard.

"He will not reply, Ory'hara," Nil'Tanar said. "I have tried."

Frowning, Glorfindel spun again. "That is not my name. Nor is it any title I recognise."

"It is what you are," replied Nil'Tanar, and the set of his expression told Glorfindel he would not be moved on this.

It was not to Glorfindel's liking. Nothing about this was. Frustrated, angry and ill at ease, he settled into a tense posture. Of all the Elves that yet dwelt on Arda, he was one of the oldest, having borne witness to the flight of the Noldor from Valinor, and the Kinslaying at Alqualondë. Yet Ages of wisdom availed him nothing here; not even at the height of his Exile had he been so disconnected from the Valar and the world. This was beyond his experience. It was, he knew, outside of the doom that had once been so clear before his eyes. He did not have Elrond's gift for foresight, but what premonitions he had did not cover this.

Bereft of both aid and experience, Glorfindel brought his thoughts to heel with rigid discipline, and spent the next several hours attempting to speak with Ryllaen, until he grew weary of the fruitless task.

* * *

Twice more they jumped, each time the unnerving sense of dislocation jolting the Elves out of their reveries. Nil'Tanar, at least, did not appear affected after the first one, and Glorfindel wondered at these Men who so willingly cut their ties to their place in the world. The first jump had surrounded them with nought but the Void, the second with large grey rocks that hung in silent rotation. Their sizes greatly varied, from the height of mountains to something as small as Glorfindel's clenched fist. The third jump had them travelling at speed past something that looked to be a moon. It was not until he studied it further that Glorfindel made out great seas and islands.

Nil'Tanar looked up at his query, and replied that it was a planet similar to Arda in both size and type. It was then that Glorfindel began to get a notion of the true distances involved in their travel. To distract himself from a realization that brought him no comfort, Glorfindel asked again about the meaning of 'Ory'hara'.

Sighing, Nil'Tanar looked away. His expression was troubled. "By rights I should not tell you," he said slowly. "It is not for me to speak of it; I am a simple warrior of little rank."

"There is no one else to tell the tale," Glorfindel said. His gaze was stern and uncompromising.

The Polaran bowed before it. "Even so, I'm afraid I've said too much already." He looked tired then, and uncertain, and very young. He had at one time named himself a full-fledged warrior at eighty years, not yet two decades out of training. For the Secondborn Race of whom Glorfindel was familiar, eighty years was a lengthy period. For an Elf, a century was still within the realms of childhood. Glorfindel judged the Polaran closer to an Elf in this instance. Looking up, Nil'Tanar sighed again, and relented. "There was a prophecy made, long ago. Precognition does not come easily, even to the most weave-sensitive of us, and when it does, it is always significant.

"The prophecy speaks of he who is One with the universe. Ory'hara. At the time of our greatest need, Ory'hara will manifest and save us from some great danger. That is all I can say."

Glorfindel was thoughtful. "You do not know what this danger is."

Nil'Tanar shook his head.

"And Ryllaen?"

"I don't know."

It was then, for the first time, that they received a response from the Vell-os. It was a whisper across their thoughts, distinct, separate, and fleeting.

«_We live, and we live, and live._

_We can never die._

_We see, we learn, we remember, onwards forever._

_We serve, and learn, and remember and remember._

_We remember and watch for interest._

_He comes, unremembering, out of mind._

_He grows, he blooms, unremembering, out of sight._

_We see him, point for him, and remembrance shows._

_He travels, searching, puzzling, troubled._

_He seeks help, the last help helps him._

_He travels, he sees, he understands._

_He misleads, he gambles, he surprises the minds._

_He drags us, away, in pain, screaming._

_We are free, forever free,_

_beyond all restraint… _»

The three passengers were silent.

Glorfindel jumped to his feet. "Ryllaen! What does that mean?"

There was no reply. Ryllaen had not changed his posture at all; were it not for the slight rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathed, he might have seemed a statue. It was maddening, this lack of response, and Glorfindel turned away in frustration.

"Vell-os prophecy," Nil'Tanar offered finally. "There are so few . . . the most powerful of the Vell-os are long dead, the last almost six hundred years ago."

"It does not explain this . . . captivity."

Nil'Tanar grimaced, looking both angry and shamed. The contempt in the glare he shot at the Vell-os was palpable. "You freed him, Ory'hara. I don't think you understand what that means. The one desire of the Vell-os for centuries has been freedom."

It was all Glorfindel could do not to draw his sword, little use though it would be. Aid had been given to these Men in good faith, for no reason other than that they needed it. That their generosity could be repaid in such a fashion was not something he would have believed of any but the most evil of Men. Nil'Tanar's meaning was plain: Ryllaen had taken him so that he could provide the same service for Ryllaen's people. So that he could free the Vell-os of their chains. The golden-haired Elf was quite suddenly glad that his lord and friend had not made the journey out of Imladris with them.

"Elrond is the healer, not I," said Glorfindel. "I have not the skill."

"But you have been beyond the veil," Nil'Tanar replied.

The planet was behind them. Somewhere below was the bright, blinding ball of light that was this planet's sun. The intensity was muted, like a scattering of cloud providing light shade in summer, by the walls of their prison.

A pause, a breath, and the Void shifted again.

When he could gather his shattered thoughts once more, Glorfindel stared contemplatively out at what appeared to be a pervasive mist. "And Eiliant? I have little liking for your reasoning thus far. What motive is there for Eiliant's presence?"

Nil'Tanar shrugged. "I am sorry, Ory'hara, I don't know."

The Wood-elf broke in with a pained smile. "That is my error, I fear," he said, speaking for the first time in many hours. "I woke to find you in some danger, Lord Glorfindel, and thought to provide what aid I could. It availed you little, and me less. The blue fire arose around us before I could move you beyond its boundaries."

Glorfindel nodded. Then he blinked, and looked again at Eiliant. The Wood-elf was pale, his lips near blue, and he sat with a bonelessness that was at odds with his usual tightly controlled energy. There was a shadow in his eyes that Glorfindel did not like.

"Eiliant, what ails you?" he spoke sharply, made abrupt by concern.

Grimacing, Eiliant looked away. His reply came reluctantly. "I am Moriquendi, Lord Glorfindel."

Brows furrowed, Nil'Tanar frowned. "I don't understand."

Glorfindel did, and his understanding moved him to greater heights of anger than he had reached in an Age. "The Moriquendi chose long ago to forsake the summons to Valinor. They are tied most deeply to Endor. You have broken that bond with brutal force."

It was clear from Nil'Tanar's expression that he still did not understand, and Glorfindel very nearly growled at him.

"Do you not see it? He is fading before our eyes! Ai, Eiliant! This is not a doom I would have had you suffer, my friend."

Eliant smiled briefly, the faintest lift of the corners of his lips. "I know that, Lord Glorfindel. It is no fault of yours."

A long moment passed, in which Eiliant's eyes drifted shut and Nil'Tanar puzzled over his words. At last, his eyes widened, and incredulity filled them. "He is dying?" He sprang to his feet, muttering curses under his breath. "Vell-os!" he shouted. "Take them back! Would you have his blood on your hands?"

There was no reply.

Glorfindel closed his eyes in despair.

* * *

**Notes**

The Vell-os prophecy is taken directly from the EV:Nova Preambles.

Ory-hara is taken from the game.

Varda Elbereth

Endor: old Sindarin name for Middle-Earth


End file.
